


Tom/Harry Collection

by Padraigen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:33:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28339272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Padraigen/pseuds/Padraigen
Summary: My collection of unfinished Tomarry fics.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	1. don't be afraid of the dark, little one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Harry retreats to the Chamber of Secrets after the Battle of Hogwarts, he inadvertently triggers old magic that hurls him fifty years into the past.
> 
> There, he finds himself attending school with his most prominent rival. But Riddle is not nearly as interested in him as Harry expects him to be, and he intends to figure out why.
> 
> (Mpreg.)

I.

It wasn’t a conscious decision that found Harry on the second floor of the castle, standing motionless in the entrance to the girls’ lavatory.

In fact, he couldn’t even remember how he’d got there. Or why. But he could almost enjoy how quiet it was, here above the Great Hall where families and friends still wept for the loss of their loved ones and others celebrated a victory that, to Harry, didn’t feel much like a victory at all.

The castle was in shambles. Every broken piece of brick, every crack and every fissure, every chunk of rubble that Harry had passed by was like a gouge to his heart. This was his home, wasn’t it? Destroyed.

Low mutters reached his ears from down the corridor to his left, and he sought to hide from them. His invisibility cloak had done so much for him over the years, but right now, even it was not enough.

He sought to be alone.

Harry entered the bathroom and came upon the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, still there no matter how he’d wished to forget it. Uncertainty niggled at him, like an uncomfortable itch at the back of his brain, but he it pushed away. Hissed, “Open.”

Nothing happened.

Confusion bubbled within him, and for a moment, he panicked. “Open,” he said again.

And then it occurred to him. Voldemort’s Horcrux. He had been Voldemort’s Horcrux. He’d had a piece of Voldemort’s soul inside of him. Of course, he’d _known_ that. It had, after all, been the reason he’d secreted away into the Forbidden Forest to face the Dark Lord head on and fulfil a prophecy he had never wished to be a part of in the first place. (Could that really not have been more than an hour ago? It felt like it had been ages.) But he hadn’t stopped to think on it then, much more concerned with the fact that he was likely walking to his death.

Now, though. Now the very thought made his stomach stir unpleasantly, bile rising in his throat like a burning serpent slithering up his esophagus. It took everything in him to swallow back the contents of his stomach.

He wasn’t a Horcrux anymore. That part of him died when Voldemort cast the Killing Curse at him in the forest. That same part of him that could speak Parseltongue died with it.

The mutterings grew louder, and he screwed his eyes shut, grasping for the sibilant whispers that had once allowed him to unlock the chamber, trying to recall the sound, the way his mouth had formed the word. And then...

“ _Open_.”

The pipe leading down into the chamber was finally revealed to him, and, without further thought, he jumped in, barely remembering to cast a spell that would slow his descent.

He did not plan at all for how he would get out of the chamber. At the moment, it hardly seemed to matter.

A chill shot down his spine as he came face-to-face with the carcass of the basilisk upon setting foot inside the chamber. He almost tripped over his cloak trying to maneuver around it as quickly as possible and wondered once again why he’d thought it would be a good idea to come down here.

And again, the answer came to him—he wanted to be alone, and no one, not even Ron or Hermione, would think to come looking for him down here. The morbid thought that, if something was to happen to him whilst he was down here, it could take weeks—perhaps longer—for anyone to find him was simply not enough to make him turn around.

Harry drew his cloak tighter about him, more for comfort than for its intended practical uses, cast a dim _Lumos,_ and set to wandering around the vast, dark, and miserably chilly cavern with a curiosity he’d never had for it before. Anything to take his mind off the last few hours. The last few months, really, if he was being perfectly honest.

It might be impossible to forget that blinding, flashing green light that spelled his demise, might be unfeasible to erase those cursed words— _Avada Kedavra!_ —from his mind forever, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try.

Remus, though… Tonks, Fred, Colin. The dozens who had died to save the wizarding world from a dark and dismal fate… he would never forget them.

His wanderings led him around the chamber, and its dark and dinginess were not a very good buffers from his thoughts, though they put up a valiant effort. Although Salazar Slytherin’s tastes did not exactly align with his own—at all, really—the cavern was admittedly grand and impressive. With a high ceiling, towering columns, ornate sconces, and that huge, ostentatious statue of Slytherin himself, it made for the exact sort of place Harry imagined a young Voldemort to plan and plot in.

His secret lair.

The thought might have been amusing, had it been any other day. As it stood, Harry couldn’t rightly imagine himself laughing ever again.

It was with this morose thought that Harry stumbled into a nook he hadn’t noticed before. He steadied himself with one hand on cold stone, and his touch made out grooves and divots in the rock. He brought his wand up and gasped.

Hundreds of runes were inscribed into the curve of stone before him, reaching far up to where even the light of his wand couldn’t reach. He took a hesitant step forward, tracing a few of the runes with the fingers of his left hand, almost as if drawn by an invisible force. His breath came in quicker puffs of air, in and out, until his hand ceased its movement, hovering above two words. They were the only inscriptions he could make out enough to read, although their meaning was lost on him.

For the most fleeting of moments, he wished he’d listened to Hermione when she had encouraged him to take a class on Ancient Runes. Though he rather doubted only one such class would be of much use to him here.

His fingers grew shaky where they rested upon the two words, and he forced his palm flat beneath them. He swallowed, something inside him, deep in his gut, telling him what an incredibly terrible idea it would be to speak them aloud. But something else—perhaps that same invisible force from before, or maybe a latent instinct he was only now recognizing he had—was encouraging him in the other direction.

And though he tried, he couldn’t stop himself. The words came from within him, powerful and irrepressible. They sent shivers racing down his spine, made his knees tremble, caused the light at the tip of his wand to go out.

A bright white light, a thousand times more intense, blinded him in its place before the second word could even completely leave his tongue. And then he vanished, the echoes of those two words the only evidence that he had ever been there at all…

“ _Vita nova._ ”

II.

The blinding light faded almost as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Harry’s vision spotted and a high-pitched ringing in his ears. When his sight finally cleared, he realized his knees must have given out at some point as he was now kneeling on icy stone.

He lifted his head, almost impervious to the sharp pang in his temples this motion caused. His shoulder was pressed up against a newly familiar wall of runes.

Harry was still in the chamber.

There was only enough time for a split-second of relief to wash through him before a pained moan reached his ears from his right, and he had to bite his tongue to hold in what would have been a very embarrassing squawk of alarm. He almost let out the cry anyway, once he’d turned his head a bit and caught sight of just what—or whom—exactly had made the noise.

Tom Riddle was laid—or, more accurately, _sprawled_ —out mere feet before him in all his young, dark, and handsome glory. Harry recognized those aristocratic features and dark, not-entirely-kempt hair instantly, his mind procuring visions of this very same boy—or a version of him, at the very least—that he remembered meeting in his second year.

Harry swiftly came to the realization that he simply did not have time for the proper freak-out he wanted to have at that moment, nor any time for the dozens of questions streaking through his mind, such as _What the fuck had happened? Why was he in the presence of a young Tom Riddle who, by all rights, should have only existed some three or so decades before Harry had even been born? What had those two words meant?_ And, most lamentably, of course— _Why did these kinds of things always happen to him?_

No answers would be forthcoming, and he had more pressing complications at hand, most notably being that Riddle would likely gain consciousness soon. And Harry had absolutely no desire to be anywhere near him when he did so.

He took a moment to spitefully enjoy the pained grimace on Riddle’s otherwise flawless face, then adjusted his invisibility cloak to cover himself fully and leapt to his feet, his wand clutched in his palm. He cast a silencing spell on himself—just in case—and ran from the alcove back into the chamber that was mostly unchanged from what it had been moments ago, except that now the candles in the sconces had been lit and there was no fallen rubble or destruction of stone.

The silencing charm turned out to be rather prudent, as Harry couldn’t keep in his startled shout of fright at the very big, very _alive_ basilisk that seemed to doze just outside the little nook. Heart in his throat, Harry tiptoed around the massive, sleeping snake, not keen to take any chances even with the silencing spell still in place, and once he was a good few feet away from it he sprinted for the pipe leading out of the chamber.

There he came upon a broomstick—apparently Riddle hadn’t yet learned how to fly without one, thank Merlin—that had haphazardly been thrown to the floor as if someone (Riddle) had been in too much of a hurry to handle it properly. Harry grabbed the broom and mounted it in one swift, practiced motion, wasting no time in zooming back up the pipe. It wasn’t nearly as quick or smooth a ride as his Firebolt, but then, Harry hadn’t expected it to be.

 _Because it was an old broom_.

Was it, though?

Or was it just old for his standards? In his… time?

He shook his head to rid himself of the thoughts. He couldn’t think about that right now. He had only one goal in mind at the moment, and that goal was to _get away_.

Once he’d reached the second floor girls’ lavatory, he dismounted and very seriously considered leaving the broom there, or even taking it with him. But, in the end, he figured he didn’t want Riddle suspecting that someone else had been down there with him, no matter how vindictively amusing it would have been to leave him stranded down there, at least for the time it took for Riddle to inevitably come up with another solution to get back up.

So he dropped the broom down the pipe and prayed the noise it made on the way down wouldn’t be too obviously conspicuous. And then he fled.

He hadn’t consciously known his intended destination until he’d reached the same floor that held the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, standing mere metres away from the statue of the one-eyed witch. It never even occurred to him how fortunate it was he hadn’t come across anyone else in his dazed escape from the chamber. It did occur to him, however, how telling it was that he could hear no more sobbing, could see no signs of destruction or mayhem or any evidence at all that a battle had taken place here not so very long ago.

One hesitant step forward, and then another, and then another had him standing directly before the statue. Harry bit his lip, tentative. What if the passage wasn’t even there yet? What if he didn’t fit? What if he couldn’t unveil it, just as had almost been the case for the Chamber of Secrets? (He ignored the mocking voice in his head that grumbled he would have been better off if he hadn’t been able to open it.)

Oh, well. There was nothing for it, and if this didn’t work, there were other ways out of the castle. He tapped the hump with his wand and whispered, “ _Dissendium_.”

The hump on the witch’s statue slid open to reveal a rather small gap that Harry eyed warily. He wasn’t exactly a third year anymore and while he had never been terribly big, he wasn’t sure even he could fit through such a small opening. The humiliation of getting stuck might lose him what little will he had left to live.

Harry rolled his eyes at his own dramatics and climbed in. Certainly, it was a tight fit, but with a little wiggling and squirming he was able to push through, sliding down the short slide into the tunnel he’d taken to get to Honeydukes in his third year. He huffed out a breath, stood up, lit his wand, and began the hour long trek it would take to reach Hogsmeade.

As he trudged along the winding tunnel, his thoughts wouldn’t allow him to fixate on anything but the last half hour. As far as distractions went, wherever—or whenever—the hell he’d found himself now was certainly a sufficient diversion from his earlier morose thoughts. Not that that meant much, all things considered.

He couldn’t believe he was back to dealing with Tom Riddle. Again. Hadn’t he _literally_ just killed him? Well, an older version of him. He’d finally, _finally_ , been rid of the man—monster—that had been a dark, menacing stormcloud, hanging over him since before he’d even been born, for what? All of one, maybe two hours? Not that Harry believed he’d ever truly be _rid_ of him, but at least he’d been _dead_. Gone, with none of his repulsive Horcruxes left that risked bringing him back.

What in Merlin’s name had happened?

 _Vita nova, vita nova, vitanova, vitanovavitanova_ —

What had those two words meant? He was almost certain his uttering of those words was the cause of his most recent… _situation_. He snorted. That really was the only word for it, for now anyway, until it turned into an obligatory _problem_ , or perhaps, even more likely—he _was_ Harry Potter, after all— _catastrophe_.

He’d have to get back into the castle at some point. Of course. Obviously. Really, he’d have to get back into that damned chamber, no matter how much even the thought of it repelled him— _why_ had he decided to go there in the first place? What had he been thinking?

God, he was so tired.

It was an idle walk to the cellar of Honeydukes. He quickly entered the central part of the shop to find it bustling with what Harry could only assume were Hogwarts students, though he did not recognize any of the faces he saw there. Just more proof on top of the mounting pile of evidence that he was not where he was supposed to be. He didn’t stay long, ignoring how one chocolate frog in particular seemed to call for him even under his cloak, taking to the edges of the shop so he would be in less risk of accidentally bumping into somebody.

The air outside was neither too warm nor too cold, the skies overcast, and Harry guessed—what with how busy Hogsmeade appeared—that this was probably one of the first Hogsmeade outings of the school year. The glaringly obvious fact that it was no longer May was indeed worrying, Harry acknowledged, but no more so than anything else he’d encountered thus far.

Harry headed in the direction of the forest skirting the edges of the town, longing desperately for some peace and quiet. He needed to think. He needed a _plan_.

And, most especially, he needed to _pay attention_.

Unfortunately for him, Harry, lost deeply to his thoughts, did not notice the solitary form rounding the tree in front of him until it was too late, and unintentionally collided with a firm chest. He gasped and tried to step back, although all he really managed in doing so was to trip on the hem of his cloak and fall down backwards. It really didn’t help that the stupid cloak snagged on a branch, leaving only half of him invisible.

“Bloody hell, watch where you’re go— Oh.”

Harry stared up at the tall form that towered over him, wide-eyed and gaping (and probably hallucinating, too, because why not at this point?). Long, dark hair, brown and gleaming eyes, and high cheekbones, undeniably handsome. The boy staring back at him bore a striking resemblance to Sirius Black… but that wasn’t possible—

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you before,” the boy drawled casually, as if Harry wasn’t slumped in an idiotic pile of limbs and cloak in front of him. His eyes glinted with the same sort of mischief Harry only ever saw from the twins or his godfather. He gulped. “My name is Alphard. Alphard Black. And who might you be?”

III.

Harry gaped at the boy, finding it rather difficult to parse the differences between his appearance and Sirius’. He was younger, yes. Less weary and worn than Harry had ever seen Sirius. But his eyes were the same shape, his hair the same color, and Harry’s chest ached somewhere in the region of his heart.

“I—”

He faltered, unsure of what to say. This was Alphard Black. Harry was almost positive he was the same Alphard Black that Sirius had briefly mentioned left him some gold and was subsequently struck off the tapestry for it. This was Sirius’ _uncle_ , a man who had long been dead in his own time.

What could he say to him?

Alphard’s head tilted minutely to the side as he appraised Harry. His brown eyes—so painfully familiar—scrutinized every part of him that Harry probably didn’t want him to see, lingering on his Invisibility Cloak, his forehead, and—strangely—his chest.

“You’re a curious one, aren’t you?” Alphard asked after a long moment where they stared at each other, Harry uncomfortable and Alphard completely unreadable.

Harry swallowed. “What?”

Alphard raised a calculating eyebrow. “You have an Invisibility Cloak.” He gestured to said cloak with his chin. “It’s unlike any other I’ve seen, though. My grandfather owns one, you know, and he let me try it once. Wasn’t nearly as effective—if you stood directly in the sun, the light would bounce right off it. Even those without the gift of observation would see it.” Alphard leant down to get a closer look. “But if you hadn’t so obviously stumbled into me, I wouldn’t have noticed a thing.”  
  


Harry was unsure whether to be offended or not. He opened his mouth to protest—what, he wasn’t entirely sure—when Alphard reached out a hand to touch the cloak. Harry jerked back in surprise, but the abrupt motion did nothing to dissuade him. Alphard’s eyes widened infinitesimally—the only fault in his otherwise flawlessly unperturbed guise. His fingers slid over the fluid-like, silky material. Harry could only imagine that the one he’d tried before felt nothing like Harry’s own cloak, cool to the touch, like liquid silver running over his skin.

Alphard suddenly pulled away, gracefully standing up straight once more. “Whilst your cloak is most… _fascinating_ , I admit I am rather more interested in _that_.” To Harry’s surprise, Alphard lowered his eyes to stare pointedly at his chest.

He followed Alphard’s line of sight, noticing for the first time that at some point during the last twenty-four hours, the hem of his shirt had torn, rendering most of the left side of his chest bare. But that wasn’t what caught his attention.

Mere centimeters below his left collarbone, shiny green ink had been impressed on his skin in the shape of a crest. Inside the crest was a tiny emerald serpent, occasionally wriggling in place or making loops around the edge before returning to its center. Harry blinked in shock.

“ _That_ is the Mark of Slytherin,” Alphard said knowledgeably. “It would be odd—and frankly archaic—enough for a student of his House to wear such an emblem, but _you_ are not a Slytherin, are you? In fact, you don’t even attend Hogwarts. I would know, seeing as I myself am a student there and I have never seen you before.” He paused for what Harry assumed was intended to be a dramatic effect. “You cannot be so much older that I don’t recall you from one of the graduated upper years, either.” Alphard casually stuffed his hands into his robe pockets, leaning back on his heels and smugly peering down at Harry as if he’d just made some grand discovery. “As I said… Curious.”

And Harry had to agree. It _was_ curious, although in his opinion that was a rather mild term for it. Unsettling, alarming, and bewildering all sounded decidedly more accurate.

“Is it?” Harry said. He didn’t really mean to be contrary, but he honestly didn’t know how else to reply to that.

Alphard frowned momentarily, but his pretense of indifference returned only a few seconds later. “Who are you?”

Harry worried his bottom lip, weighing his possible responses. Should he be honest? Or would he be creating some sort of time paradox by giving his true identity? Had he _already_ created such a paradox, just by having this conversation? Merlin, Harry wasn’t cut out for this. With a sudden, sharp pang of yearning, Harry wished his friends were here with him. Particularly Hermione. She would know what to do.

He allowed himself one single moment of wondering about Ron and Hermione. Had they realized he was gone, yet? Were they looking for him? But Alphard was still staring at him expectantly when he pulled himself out of his reverie, and it was clear he wouldn’t go away until he had an answer.

Overwhelmed and exhausted, Harry blurted the only thing he could think of. “I’m Harry.”

Alphard did not even blink. “Harry…?”

“Just Harry.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over them as Alphard determined what to make of that response. Finally, he said, “And where are you from, just Harry?”

Harry’s lips pursed, mind blanking.

Alphard let out a put-upon sigh. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll be forced to go to the Headmaster with the report of a strange man creeping about Hogsmeade in an Invisibility Cloak during a _school outing_. You know, when a bunch of children are running about generally unattended.”

Harry gawked at the implications. “ _Wha_ — You— I— ” He hissed out an infuriated breath. “I wasn’t _creeping about_.”

“It certainly seemed like it to me,” Alphard said, with what Harry thought was a rather inappropriate amount of glee. “I wonder what Dippet will say.”

Harry glowered. Had Sirius been this irritating when he’d been a teenager? Surely not.

But the more he thought about it, the less convinced he was. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. That really wasn’t important right now.

Harry floundered. He couldn’t tell the truth. Could he? But he was a terrible liar. And he couldn’t explain away the damned tattoo, either, since he didn’t even understand it himself. “I don’t— I can’t tell you.”

The look Alphard gave him made him wince. “Why not?”

“I just can’t. I need—” _More time. More information. A suitable lie. Some_ fucking _sleep._

Alphard pushed on. “What’s with the Mark?”

“I don’t know,” Harry answered honestly.

Alphard huffed out a breath and abruptly switched tracks. “Where are you staying?”

“What?”

“ _Staying_ ,” Alphard said again, stressing the word this time, his patience clearly thinning. “Where are you sleeping tonight?”

“Oh. Er.” Harry honestly hadn’t even considered that. His mind had been reeling from the moment he’d got here and saw bloody _Tom Riddle_ , alive if unconscious. Simple practicalities like _sleeping arrangements_ hadn’t even ranked on his to-do list, which mostly consisted of _Get the fuck away from baby Voldemort_. He’d probably just attempt to transfigure something into a tent, or simply tread further into the forest and sleep under the canopy of stars. It wouldn’t be anything _new_ , and he likely wouldn’t be able to fall asleep anyway.

“How old are you? Are you still in school?” Alphard continued his barrage of questions. He was _searching_ , Harry knew that, trying to pull information from him any way he could think of. But Harry was drained, physically and emotionally, and he’d simply _had it_ with human interaction for the day. For a lifetime, really. Hadn’t this all started because he’d wanted to be _alone_?

“Look,” Harry snapped, finally pulling himself together and forcing himself clumsily to his feet, feeling gratified when Alphard took a single, hasty step back. “I know this probably isn’t making any sense to you, but truthfully, I don’t care. I don’t even _know_ you. Your _curiosity_ means nothing to me right now.” He took a breath. “I have just lived the _shittiest_ day of my entire life, and it has _somehow_ , beyond all reason or rationality, gotten even _worse_ within the last hour and a half. I am _tired_ , I am _confused,_ and, more than anything, I want to be left _alone_. So you can tell the Headmaster whatever you want, if it so pleases you, but I will not be answering any more of your questions today. Goodbye.”

Harry made to step around him, but Alphard grabbed his arm before he could take more than a few steps. This was rather a bold move, considering that Harry was ready to start throwing hexes, consequences be damned.

Alphard quickly let go at Harry’s murderous glare, his hands going up in a display of surrender. “All right, all right. I… apologize. I can see you are clearly distressed.” He rushed on before Harry could protest. “Perhaps I could… be of some assistance.”

“How do you reckon that?” Harry demanded mockingly.

“I am a Black, Harry. As such, there is a lot I can do for you.” Alphard paused to smirk, the expression more teasing than taunting. “I will, of course, require something in return.”

It was all Harry could do not to groan out loud. Alphard wanted to bargain. Of course he did, he was a Slytherin for Merlin’s sake! He wasn’t going to do something nice just for the sake of it.

Why did Harry have a feeling he was going to regret this?

IV.

Vicious spikes of pain driving through his brain were certainly the worst form of alarm clocks, in Tom’s educated opinion. He was no stranger to pain, of course, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it. If he was being honest, however—and he generally tried not to be—he would take triple the intensity of the torment in his head if it meant that infernal ringing in his ears would _shut up_.

_What the bloody hell had happened?_

Opening his eyes had never been such a challenge, and he almost had to wonder if some brainless idiot with a death wish had thought to glue them shut. But no.

His eyes—when they finally determined to blink open—were met with unnerving darkness. It took a moment for them to adjust, but when they did, he was met with a great stone wall covered in ancient runes rising above him.

Oh. Right.

The next breath he let out rattled in his lungs, and he almost heaved. He swallowed desperately, painfully, fixated on keeping down his breakfast. He would absolutely _not_ be sick.

It was an immense effort to sit up, but Tom managed it admirably. He pushed himself back and leant against the wall, allowing himself a single moment to breathe. Why was he huffing like he’d just run a circle around the entirety of the Hogwarts grounds?

He thought back to what he’d been doing before he’d unceremoniously been knocked unconscious and winced. His eyes trailed upwards before locking on the two words he hadn’t meant to utter aloud.

_Vita nova._

He knew enough of Latin to know that translated to ‘New life.’ Beyond that, though, he could only guess at its meaning.

Had he somehow, accidentally, activated some sort of ritualistic magic? Scanning the many runes surrounding the inscribed incantation led him to believe so. But what did it do?

_Change. Rebirth. Revival. Resurrection._

All of these could be associated with such a phrase. It could mean any number of things. Tom thought about it for a moment more before it was clear that the answers were not about to present themselves to him on a platter and that he’d have to conduct further research. This was a mite bothersome but far from something he’d be unwilling to do. Research was just another of his many talents, after all.

He stood up, clutching for a moment at his head which still ached fiercely and sent a wave of dizziness to unbalance him. Had he hit it on something?

Tom leaned up against the stone wall and slid his hand around to the back of his head, pressing gently against his scalp. His fingers met a tender spot that made him immediately drop his hand. But when he looked, no blood coated his fingers, so it was likely only a bruise.

An _Episkey_ would probably be enough to take care of it. He called his wand—which had at some point fallen to the floor—to him and pointed it at the back of his head, softly muttering the healing charm. He probably could have cast it silently, as it wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before, but he didn’t want to risk it with the dizziness still making his head spin. The tender spot flared with sudden heat, but sweet relief from the pain soon followed.

He tucked his wand into the holster wrapped snugly around his forearm and left the small alcove. Inside the Chamber, the basilisk slept on, its gleaming scales heaving with every intake of breath. He didn’t care to disturb it at present, so he simply slipped past it and strode back towards the entrance.

The broomstick lied in wait in front of the tunnel that led up and out, and he mounted it without any fuss, zooming up the pipe. Inside the bathroom he shrunk the broom down and tucked it inside his robe pocket and then cast a spell at the door that would reveal if anyone was walking past in the hallway outside. As soon as he was certain that the coast was clear, he swept out of the room and made a sharp right, striding down the corridor. He’d meant to only make a quick stop into the Chamber whilst the majority of the school’s occupants were down in Hogsmeade before he went himself, as minding the younger students was one of his duties as Head Boy.

But to his dismay, people were already gathering outside the Great Hall when he finally reached the Entrance Hall. A quick _Tempus_ told him that he had been unconscious inside the Chamber for far longer than he’d first estimated, and it was already time for dinner.

“We missed you in Hogsmeade, Tom,” said a feminine voice near his ear. It took everything in him not to jump away—not because he was skittish, but because he was admittedly cautious of being so near a female after the activation of that unknown spell. He hadn’t wanted to think of it before, but the theory must have subconsciously burrowed its way into his thoughts.

_New life._

What was a more obvious meaning than the conception of a child?

It was ridiculous, of course. He had never heard of a way to conceive without physical intercourse, but he was much too aware to believe he knew all there was to know of magic’s abilities. And so it was only prudent to be wary.

He turned and offered a smile that felt more forced than usual. “I was… preoccupied.”

Meara Nottingworth was a seventh-year pureblood from Ravenclaw who had taken an unfortunate fancy to him some years ago. He generally took care to encourage favorable opinions of himself in others, but at the moment, her familiarity with him was galling.

Meara smiled in understanding. Tom wanted to roll his eyes. “Well, I was hoping—”

He really hadn’t any interest in whatever she was ‘hoping.’ “Pardon me, Meara,” he cut in, “but I’ve a pressing concern that I need to attend to. Perhaps we can chat another time?”

With another winning grin that sat easier on his lips than the last, Tom spun back around, not particularly caring how Meara would react to his dismissal.

Unfortunately, it seemed that turning around meant exchanging one annoyance for another. One that almost ran straight into him, in fact.

Alphard, luckily, was able to halt before he could make contact with his person. He took one look at Tom and stiffened, his expression warping into one of indifference. Although he tried to hide it, Tom could see clearly the distaste in his eyes.

Inside, Tom was smirking, but he did not allow his delight to show on his face. “Alphard,” he said impassively.

“Tom.”

Tom was opening his mouth to question him when movement behind Alphard caught his eye. When he looked, his eyes met the green ones of a boy he’d never met before. He paused. “Who is this?”

“He’s my cousin,” Alphard replied promptly, correctly assuming who the question had been aimed at. “Harry Horvat.”

Tom’s gaze flickered back to Alphard. “Horvat?”

Alphard swallowed. “He’s from my mother’s side of the family.”

A lie. Alphard was lying about Harry being from his mother’s side, but was he lying about him being related? Why? And what was he doing here?

Tom held out a hand towards ‘Harry.’ Harry hesitated, staring down at it with wide eyes, a grim look on his face. He appeared pallid, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes. His hair was a disaster of curls atop his head, nothing like he would imagine a relative to the Blacks would have inherited. With visible reluctance, Harry took his hand.

“Tom Riddle,” he introduced himself, his curiosity piqued. “A pleasure to meet you.”

V.

Harry snatched his hand from Riddle’s the moment Riddle loosened his grip, perturbed by the strange spark he’d felt upon contact, zipping like electricity up his arm. Had Riddle felt it, too?

Riddle’s eyes narrowed as he stared at him, the obvious—and uncomfortable—scrutinization making Harry itch to pull his wand. But he’d gotten better at ignoring his impulses—especially the ones that gave him fantastically terrible ideas—and allowed himself to be studied.

It was only fair he study in return. Riddle held himself like his spine was made of solid steel. He was tall, Harry would give him that, but Voldemort had been taller. The confident set of his shoulders, though, the way arrogance seemed to leak from his very pores was all very familiar. There was no doubt in Harry’s mind who this boy would grow up to become.

_If I let him._

The thought took him by surprise. He had not had the chance to think about what it meant that he was here, beyond the fact that it was a serious inconvenience and the vague notion that he had to find some way to go back—forward? Harry’s head throbbed—But now that he really thought about it, an obvious opportunity arose.

He could stop Riddle. He could somehow put a halt to all his plans before they took effect. Before he tried to take over the wizarding world all over again.

He could _kill him._

Harry shied away from that thought immediately, his heart suddenly racing while in his mind a memory played of the Killing Curse rebounding and Voldemort dropping. Gone forever. (Or at least for the short time it took for Harry to find himself in trouble again.)

Killing Riddle again would have to be a last resort. He didn’t even know for sure yet that he wouldn’t miraculously wake up tomorrow back in his own time—although he knew that was extremely unlikely.

Harry watched as Riddle gave him one last onceover before turning back to Alphard, trying to get a read on him. But if there was anything Riddle was good at, it was keeping his true thoughts hidden.

“I didn’t know we gave tours to outsiders,” Riddle said, his tone pleasant. But Harry wasn’t fooled, and neither, it seemed, was Alphard.

“I really wouldn’t know,” Alphard said, tone matching Riddle’s in its false geniality. “Harry attends Hogwarts now. He’ll spend his seventh year studying with us. I was actually just going to show him to the Great Hall for dinner. You’ll excuse us, won’t you?”

Riddle’s eyes flashed as Alphard pushed past him, pulling Harry along behind him towards the entrance to the Great Hall. Harry wanted to grin, amused at the clear tension between the two boys. Apparently Dumbledore was not the only one Riddle had not managed to charm during his school days.

Harry let himself be led into the Hall, marvelling at how it mirrored the one in his own time almost exactly. It set Harry a little more at ease to know some things didn’t change. Well, at least until he realized he was being dragged to the Slytherin table, not Gryffindor. He grimaced.

Right. He was a Slytherin now.

Out in the forest beyond Hogsmeade, Alphard had offered Harry to become Harry Horvat. The Horvats were technically a pureblood family who originated in Croatia and had emigrated to other European countries, most of whom settled in Britain. Over time, the family name apparently lost its standing among other British purebloods, along with its fortune and blood purity.

Harry honestly hadn’t cared to listen to the particulars. He just knew he was supposed to be playing the part of Alphard’s cousin on his mother’s side, someone who the Blacks generally elected to ignore existed but would be inclined to assist if it meant they could get something out of it in turn. The perfect scenario, really, since that was more or less exactly what was happening.

 _“I want to know everything there is to know about you, Just Harry_ ,” Alphard had said. In exchange, he would tell the Headmaster some sob story about his cousin needing a place to continue his education and earn his NEWTs.

Harry had been nervous sitting inside what he’d always known to be Dumbledore’s office, but actually belonged to Headmaster Dippet in this time. It was so much tidier than when it had been (would be?) Dumbledore’s—there were so many less odd trinkets and interesting artifacts lying about. There was no bowl that supplied endless lemon drops. There was no Fawkes.

Dippet had been very sympathetic to Harry’s plight and had agreed to let him study in Hogwarts for his last year. Alphard hadn’t been kidding about the sway a name like Black held. Harry was sure few others would have had the same outcome.

One stipulation had been, of course, that he’d be sorted into Slytherin with Alphard. “ _How will we get to know each other if we’re always in different dormitories?_ ” Alphard had asked.

Harry could hardly argue. This was really the best he could’ve done for himself. He now had a way in and out of Hogwarts, he had access to the Chamber, and, as a bonus—or whatever could subjectively be counted as a bonus—he could also keep an eye on Riddle.

Dippet had, unfortunately, agreed to let Harry be in Slytherin so that the two ostensible cousins could stay together. He hadn’t even bothered to bring out the stupid hat (although Harry wasn’t sure how much it would’ve helped him. He had, after all, almost been sorted into Slytherin the first time.)

The Great Hall was bustling with excitable students, most of whom seemed yet to come off the high of a fun day spent at Hogsmeade. The Slytherin table was slightly more subdued than the rest, but that had been the case during his own time as well, so Harry didn’t think much of it. He figured that was just how most Slytherins were.

He took the seat beside Alphard near the end of the table closest to the staff table. Plenty of curious looks were sent his way, all of which went ignored. His presence would be explained soon enough, either by Alphard, Riddle, or the Headmaster himself.

And sure enough, Dippet entered the Great Hall a few minutes later, just as food started appearing on the tables. He ambled to his chair where he did not immediately sit. Instead, he lifted a glass in one hand and a fork in the other, tapping the glass with the fork a few times so a ringing sound chimed about the hall.

This got the students’ attention.

“Yes, hello everyone,” he began, clearing his throat. “I do hope that you had a good time in Hogsmeade, for all of those who went. Please recall that only those with permission slips may go into Hogsmeade—” he stared pointedly in the direction of the Gryffindor table—“and should you be caught out and about without this specified consent, you will be subjected to weekend detention.”

Animated groans came from the Gryffindor side of the hall. Harry smiled at their antics, wishing he could be sitting over there instead.

Dippet continued when the noise died down. “Now, I’ve only one more announcement before you may begin eating. We have a new student joining our Slytherin ranks. Mr Horvat, if you’d please stand.”

Harry’s face flushed immediately, but at Alphard’s incessant nudging, he clumsily stood up. The hundreds of pairs of eyes on him were nothing new, but they discomfited him nonetheless.

“Harry Horvat will spend the rest of his seventh year here at Hogwarts. I trust you’ll all help him adjust to castle life.” Dippet set down the fork, but raised the glass high in the air. “Now, let us feast!”

Cheers went up around the hall as Harry sat back down again. Everyone but the Slytherins turned their attention away from Harry, which would have made him feel better if not for the scrutiny he was still suffering from those surrounding him.

One burning gaze in particular grabbed his attention, and as Riddle stared at him from his place a bit farther down the table, Harry could have sworn he saw a gleam of red in those dark grey eyes.

...


	2. A Painful Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his conversation with Dumbledore in not-King’s Cross, Harry wakes up in a world that is not his own. A world in mayhem.
> 
> To make an already unfortunate situation worse, Harry’s own magic has gone berserk, and the only solution seems to be binding it to someone with equal, if opposite, power.
> 
> It’s just his luck, really, that his only match happens to be Tom Riddle himself.
> 
> -
> 
> Alternatively: In which Death bows to no one.

I.

Harry was lying curled on his side, nose pressed to the moss and leaf-covered ground. The hinge of his glasses cut into his skin. As he inhaled, the scent of the forest—fresh and earthy—permeated his nostrils. This was somehow surprising. He’d been expecting something more… rotten. Scorching, maybe. Death wasn’t supposed to smell pleasant, was it?

His entire body ached, but his chest was the worst. Painful spasms rippled across it periodically, and he had to clench his jaw to keep from making a sound. He kept his eyes shut.

This was what it felt like to be hit with the Killing Curse, then. It felt like he’d been punched with an iron fist, like his ribs had caved in and his lungs had collapsed. He struggled for air. Harry had always been told it was painless—like you were already gone before you even knew what had happened. Why had he never questioned that no one could really know what it felt like to be hit with the Killing Curse because no one else had ever survived to tell the tale? He had some choice words for those who speculated.

After a dizzying moment of complete silence, Harry finally realized what he had been waiting for. What he’d been listening for.

Cheers. Triumphant hurrahs, maybe even applause. Any acknowledgement at all of his ‘death’. But there was nothing. No rustling in the undergrowth, no quiet murmurs, not even a whisper of a breath.

There was only silence.

Harry’s heart thudded in the confines of his ribcage—irrefutable proof that he was _alive_ —and he feared anyone in the clearing would be able to hear it in the impossible quiet.

What was happening? Why was there no noise? The hysterical thought that maybe he’d gone deaf—cheating death had to have _some_ sort of consequence, hadn’t it?—made his limbs lock up and his breath catch in his throat.

Oh god, he needed to _breathe_.

After a couple minutes of careful breaths and complete stillness, Harry opened his eyes. To slits at first, but wider when he only saw trees and foliage in front of him. Everything surrounding him was motionless, even the very air it seemed. As if he was inside a bubble that even nature’s own elements couldn’t penetrate.

He was alone.

It wasn’t a fully-formed thought, merely a whisper of a suspicion, and yet he knew it to be true.

Harry was alone.

Even so, he turned over with extreme caution, his hand gripping the hilt of the wand that had been digging into his side.

Moonlight illuminated the clearing, casting non-threatening shadows. Around him, the forest was tranquil. No Death Eaters disrupted the peace.

No Voldemort.

Harry pushed himself to his feet through sheer will and determination, ignoring the pangs that shot through his limbs and the way his body protested every movement.

It took a few moments for him to orient himself, but eventually he found a path through the undergrowth that he thought looked familiar, and he followed it back to the castle, his mind racing.

What had happened? Was the battle already over? Had he missed it?

… Did they win?

When Harry came to the edge of the forest, he stopped and felt his stomach drop. The castle was before him, in shambles. Even as it still stood, many of its mighty walls had tumbled down. Rubble littered the ground, great big stone and pebbles alike. No light came from inside, no sign that his home from since he was eleven years old was anything but destroyed.

His breath hitched, and when he licked his lips he tasted salt. He was crying.

The tears fell in slow rivulets down his cheeks, causing his nose to run and his lips to tremble. It was all he could do to choke back the sobs that threatened in the back of his throat.

He did not fall to his knees—no matter how much he wanted to, no matter how much he longed to give in and give up—and some self-preservation instinct he hadn’t realized still functioned made him pull out his Invisibility Cloak from his pocket and wrap it tightly around his shaking form.

Every step towards the ruined castle was slow, each one dragging a little bit more than the last. It felt like hours before he came upon the steps leading to the Entrance Hall—for all he knew, it was.

It required great mental preparation and absolute resolve for him to take that first step… and one step was all he was granted before a voice from behind him spoke up.

“You don’t want to go in there.”

Harry startled so badly that he almost tripped trying to whip around, his heart leaping into his throat. By some miracle he stayed standing, as if assisted by an invisible force, and came face-to-face with the intruder.

His eyes went wide.

If a physically perfect human could exist, he was sure that the man who stood before him was as close as humanity was ever likely to get.

The first thing Harry noticed were his electric blue eyes, staring right at him, as icy as the arctic and glowing as if they were their own source of light. The next was his hair, white as snow but gleaming silver in the moonlight. Harry’s eyes took in everything, from his perfectly symmetrical nose, to his high cheekbones, to his pale skin, to his sharp jawline.

He was tall, standing centimeters above Harry, his shoulders broad, his hands resting casually in his trouser pockets, and his stance utterly relaxed.

Harry swallowed, the bobbing of his throat borderline painful.

“What?”

The man lifted an eyebrow white as his hair. His face was unreadable. He said nothing.

Harry blinked, his eyebrows scrunching together. His jaw worked but his mind was tired, and all he really wanted to know was, “You can see me?”

The man—the figment of his imagination, the _ghost_ —did not seem inclined to answer his questions. Instead, he said in a voice deep and melodic, “There’s nothing for you in there, Harry.”

Harry tilted his head and was once more captured by those alluring eyes, so bright in the darkness. “Who are you?” he whispered, so softly he barely heard the words himself.

Finally some emotion manifested on that pretty face as the man’s lips twitched up in a barely perceptible smirk. And for a moment, Harry had the uncanny impression that he was being taunted.

But then the man’s smirk disappeared, and he said, with absolutely no inflection at all, “You may call me Axel.”

“ _Axel_?”

Harry didn’t know what he’d been expecting. Something grander, maybe, something shocking. Something that would explain his presence, that would tell Harry how he could see him even through an Invisibility Cloak that had never failed him before.

_Axel_ sounded like a lie.

If the man—Axel _,_ apparently—could sense Harry’s inner turmoil, he gave no indication of it. He merely hummed in affirmation.

So Harry asked the next question that seemed most logical. “Do you know what happened?”

Axel tilted his head to the side very slightly, only a few degrees, his eyes—so captivating, so _bewitching_ —slowly appraising Harry, traveling from his head over his rumpled, dirty, oversized clothes down to his worn sneakers and back up again. His intense gaze sent a shiver rippling down Harry’s spine, and again Harry wondered how he could see him.

“You must be tired, Harry,” Axel said once his eyes met Harry’s again.

The gentle emphasis on Harry’s name was a shock to his system. That was twice now that Axel had used his name. Rationally, Harry knew that he was recognized all the time—if people didn’t already know his face from all the papers, then his scar inevitably gave it away. He fought the urge to pat down his hair and hide his scar. He had a feeling it would do less than nothing to shield him from Axel’s penetrating gaze.

But how could his name fall so easily from an ostensible stranger’s lips? So smooth and… familiar. Intimate.

Something inside his gut twisted uncomfortably at the thought, and Harry was too drained, physically and emotionally, to make out the feeling.

“How do you know me?”

A glint of amusement flashed through those piercing eyes, Harry was sure of it. “So many questions,” Axel drawled, his voice lilting and shockingly pleasant to Harry’s ears.

“I think they’re warranted.”

Axel stared at him for a long moment, so unnaturally still he could have been mistaken for a statue. And maybe that was what he was—it would explain his inhumanly perfect attributes. Maybe Harry’s dying had lost him some of his sense and now had him conversing with statues that may or may not have been talking back. How could he know? It felt like his entire world had been upended, perhaps lost to him for good, and he was just so exhausted it wouldn’t surprise him that he wasn’t thinking straight.

“You should rest.”

“I’m not tired,” was his immediate response, blatant lie that it was.

“I think you are.”

It rankled him, how familiar this stranger was with him. Axel did not know him, could not possibly guess what Harry was feeling right now. For Merlin’s sake, Harry hardly knew himself!

“And where should I sleep, exactly, if I can’t go in the castle?” Harry demanded snidely, because he was weary and it was in his very nature to be difficult.

But if Harry’s attitude irked him, Axel didn’t show it. He merely held out a hand that Harry could do very little but stare at dumbly.

His fingers were long, and Harry didn’t know why he fixated on this detail, but suddenly all Harry wanted to know was whether or not he played the piano. That was what people with long, nimble fingers did, right? They played the piano. Or maybe they were painters? Harry didn’t know.

“What?”

By now, he’d learned not to expect an answer from his questions. That didn’t make him anymore prepared for what Axel did next, however.

Those long fingers wrapped themselves around Harry’s forearm—startlingly cold, like a block of ice locked around his arm—and while their grip wasn’t quite tight, he knew he’d experience little to no success in trying to pry them off.

He’d endured side-along apparition many times over the past few months, but never had it felt like this. It was so smooth, so effortless, outside the castle one moment, in front of a small house the next.

It had been a silent arrival, no tell-tale _crack_ that Harry was so used to. No feeling of being compressed, like being forced through a very tight rubber tube. The only indication that Harry had moved at all was the slight displacement of the air around him.

Harry blinked rapidly, anticipating a wave of nausea that never came. He frowned and then looked around their new surroundings. The house—that actually appeared to be more of a small cottage—was situated at the end of a long line of neighboring houses. Across the street sat even more houses of all shapes, colors, and sizes.

It was unsettling to notice that some of the houses had been damaged, others wrecked beyond repair. Walls had been felled, roofs caved in, people’s homes demolished. The neighborhood showed signs of desertion, the street dark.

His skin crawled with uneasiness. “Where are we?” he asked, although he had a gut feeling he already knew.

“Hogsmeade,” Axel replied, and if he wasn’t so disheartened that his hunch had been correct, Harry might have been gratified that one of his questions had finally been answered honestly.

Axel kept his grip on Harry’s arm and led him up a set of groaning, wooden stairs. The porch was in a state of disrepair when they reached it, dirt and mold wedging into crevices, broken pottery and debris littering the space in front of the door.

“You live here?” Harry asked skeptically.

Axel, predictably, ignored him, waving the hand not holding Harry, and the grimy front door opened without protest, creaking on its rusted hinges.

‘Knows wandless, non-verbal magic.’ Harry added that to his mental folder of what he knew about Axel, along with ‘abnormally long fingers’ and ‘frustratingly reticent.’

He was led into the cottage by an unrelenting tug. It was dark inside the cottage once the door had fallen shut behind them, and Harry feared he would stumble on something as they made their way further into its interior. But Axel led him true—either he had been here many times before or he could see in the dark, and Harry wasn’t sure which option would have comforted him more.

They came to a steady stop, and Harry heard the click and swish of a door opening. Inside the room, a candle on top of a nightstand flickered to life to reveal a small bedroom. Not much resided inside the room but a tiny cot posing as a bed, the nightstand, and a curiously ornate armoire that looked out of place inside the otherwise monotonous room.

Axel guided him into the room and over to the bed. Once he relaxed his grip on Harry’s forearm, Harry’s knees immediately gave out, making him sag onto the bed. A sound of shock left his lips unintentionally.

“Rest.”

Harry’s head shot up from where it was slumping to his chest. “But I—”

“Shh.” One long, ice cold finger pressed to his lips, cutting off his words and shutting off his brain.

Harry was out before his head even hit the pillow.

II.

_Raindrops pelted his skin like nails of ice, creating shivers that racked through his entire body. His coat was sodden with cold water, heavy on his scrawny frame. Again and again, he had to blink droplets out of his eyes only for great gusts of wind to blind him again._

_“We need shelter!”_

_He barely heard the words over the roar of the river beside them._

_“How do we get across?”_

_The river was deep, the waters treacherous. Waves crashed into the sides, sending sprays of water up over the edges. They would be foolish to make an attempt at wading across._

_Think._

_He needed to think._

_The gale howled an unearthly cry, winding around and through his limbs, splaying his fingers open like a deliberate force. A magnificent blast of wind sent a long stick of holly flying from his pocket, whisking it to the rain-soaked soil._

_Echoes of laughter sang in his ear._ Magic, darling, _it almost seemed to croon._ That is what it’s there for.

_He stared at his wand. His eyes widened._

_“We build a bridge.”_

—

Harry groaned, reluctant as consciousness dragged him out of the lure of sleep. His head pounded like his skull was being pummeled into, over and over again. Bright light streamed in through a window, discernible even through his closed eyelids and only serving to make his throbbing head ache worse.

With an exasperated huff, Harry pulled his pillow over his head, pressing his face into the mattress underneath. He breathed in relief at the blessed darkness.

Then, after a single moment of serenity, it occurred to him that he hadn’t had a real mattress to sleep on in quite some time. Harry’s eyes flew open and he shot up, spectacles dangling off one ear.

Where the hell was he?

Disorientated, Harry took several moments to place where he was and how he’d suddenly come to have a bed. Where were Ron and Hermione? His head felt so heavy, his mind foggy.

Slowly, one second at a time, bits and pieces of the day before came back to him. The battle. Voldemort. The Killing Curse. Dumbledore.

Axel.

_Axel._ Had he been a dream? But no, this room had been the one Axel had led him into the night before, he was sure of it. There was the nightstand with the candle, unlit now. And there was that peculiar armoire he’d taken note of yesterday. In the sunlight, its gilded edges shone brightly.

Harry righted his glasses before standing, brushing out the clothes he’d slept in. They were terribly worn and dirty. His skin felt grimy all over. He’d give his left arm for a shower right now but would settle for a cleaning charm. At that thought, he patted himself down, searching his pockets for his wand.

He didn’t find it.

Slightly panicked now, Harry ruffled through his pockets again, in the unlikely event that he’d somehow missed it the first time. This only succeeded in making him realize his mokeskin pouch had also gone missing, along with his Invisibility Cloak.

_Bloody hell_ , that great git had _stolen_ his things! Why had Harry trusted him? What could have possibly been going through his head that he would voluntarily go into a strange cottage he’d never seen before with a strange man he’d never met? _Stupid_.

But he knew why. The promise of _rest_ had been a greater temptation than the threat of a stranger had been a warning.

He tried to jump to his feet but fatigue made his limbs slow and his head dizzy. With a hand on the nightstand to steady him, he righted himself and marched to the door, flinging it open.

Somehow, he’d expected what lay outside to be wrecked and abandoned. But the cottage was neat and uncluttered. There only seemed to be two other rooms inside—a kitchen and a sitting room, both of which were clean and undamaged, looking almost exactly like one would expect the inside of a small cottage to look like.

Harry’s eyebrows scrunched together. Why had he expected a disaster?

“Awake, finally?”

Harry startled, head snapping in the direction the voice had come from. He stared. “You.”

Axel was lounging on an absurdly overstuffed couch that looked fit to pop. He wore a gray suit that clung flatteringly to his tall frame and fancy, wingtip dress shoes that were propped up on the coffee table in front of the couch. He was reading a book.

“Me,” he said. He did not even bother to look up.

The frown that marred Harry’s face then felt absolutely justified but was hard to maintain. He sighed, not awake enough to get wound up. “Where’s my wand?”

Without missing a beat, Axel asked, “Where did you see it last?”

Harry’s temper spiked, and suddenly he was revitalized. His hands clenched to fists at his sides when he caught the small, barely distinguishable smirk that lightened Axel’s handsome face. “I know you took it.”

“Oh?” Finally, Axel looked up. “It isn’t really _your_ wand, is it?”

The question caught him off guard. How could Axel know that the hawthorn wand Harry had taken from Draco Malfoy had not actually originally belonged to him? He gritted his teeth, not bothering to deny it. “I disarmed him.”

Axel did not seem to need clarification. “Ah, I see. So you _took it_ from him, ergo it belonged to you. I took it from you, ergo it now belongs to me.”

“That— That’s not how that works!” Harry cried, although even he could hear the uncertainty in his words. He wished for Hermione. She would know for sure.

Axel hummed noncommittally. “I suppose not,” he said. “Pity.”

Harry was bewildered by his indifference. What did he want with Malfoy’s wand, anyway? “So give it back,” he demanded when it became clear Axel would do nothing more than stare at him with unnerving intensity.

The most shocking thing about that morning might have been that he actually acquiesced. Harry could only blink in incredulity as Axel set aside his book and pulled out not one, but two wands from the inside pocket of his blazer. The first was the creamy-brown wood of hawthorn, the second…

Holly. Eleven inches. Presumably phoenix feather core, though Harry couldn’t know for sure as the wood was whole. It wasn’t snapped in half like it had been when Harry had put it inside his mokeskin pouch, only held together by the thread of a feather. It had been mended.

Harry gasped. “How…?”

Axel said nothing as he shifted his feet to the floor and laid the wands out, side-by-side, atop the coffee table.

“Ollivander said it would be impossible to repair it,” Harry whispered for lack of anything better. He wouldn’t let himself say _thank you_. Not yet, at least.

“Well, he is the expert,” Axel drawled, apparently keeping with the standard of telling Harry absolutely nothing. At the moment, Harry didn’t really mind.

“Can I…?” he asked hesitantly, creeping forward like he would if he’d been approaching a stag.

Axel leaned back. “Do you want it?”

To Harry’s ears, this sounded very much like a trick question. He nodded anyway.

“Then take it.”

And Harry did.

III.

The wood was warm and familiar in the palm of his hand. It seemed to settle there, vibrating like a purring cat, and he was probably just imagining it, but he didn’t care. It was his wand. Whole and undamaged. And probably just about the only thing that could have drawn his mind away from his current predicament for even a few moments.

Harry turned the wand on his clothes, pressing the tip to his rumpled, filthy shirt.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t—”

“ _Scourgify_.”

A loud _bang_ followed the incantation, his wand jerking in his hand and shooting sparks from the tip. Harry immediately dropped it and jumped back, alarmed and half-convinced he was under attack. But then a more pressing concern caught his eye, blazing red and orange and smoking slightly. His eyes widened.

He was _on fire_.

“ _Shit!_ ”

Without much thought, Harry began beating at the flames, his panic overtaking any rational thought. He cried out when this action only succeeded in setting fire to the sleeve of his shirt and began inanely waving his arm about, because surely that would help.

“ _Aguamenti!_ ”

The flames were doused almost instantly, leaving his shirt charred, steaming, and even more destroyed than it had been to begin with.

“What the _hell?_ ” Harry stared dumbfounded at his wand, lying innocently on the floor like it hadn’t just set him on fire. His gaze flickered up, and he found Axel standing up now, calmly rolling the hawthorn wand between his fingertips.

“You’re welcome.”

Harry ignored this as a crippling thought occurred to him. What other explanation could there really be? “It doesn’t answer to me anymore?”

The words were spoken softly, and he hated how his voice trembled. Like he was about to cry.

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Axel blatantly rolled his eyes—which Harry thought was rather unfair, really—before tucking the hawthorn wand back into his jacket. “It’s happening to everyone.”

“Not to you,” Harry felt the need to point out, pointedly looking at the place Axel had just slipped the hawthorn wand back into. The relief he felt was very real, but he’d be damned if he was going to admit the words of this particular stranger could soothe him.

“I’m hardly everyone, Harry,” Axel said nonsensically. “I’m special.”

Harry could only stare at him, unable to keep his frustration from boiling over. “ _What does that even mean?_ ”

But Axel apparently wasn’t feeling the need to be helpful—nothing new there—switching the subject without even trying to be subtle about it, the wanker. “If you want to shower, there’s a bathroom beside the bedroom.”

Harry frowned and thought long and hard about whether he wanted to press the issue. But the promise of a shower called to him, and if he was going to have any success at tackling the issue at hand—where he was, what had happened, his wand, Axel, or all of it, he wasn’t really sure—he wanted to feel clean and put together. Still, he couldn’t help but hesitate. “I don’t have anything I can change into.”

“I’ll get you something.”

Harry wanted to ask but quickly decided it wouldn’t be worth the effort. Axel wouldn’t answer him anyway.

So he turned around and saw that, sure enough, there was a door beside the one he’d just come out of. After he’d entered the bathroom, he firmly shut it behind him, dismayed to find there was no lock on the knob. It was unlikely that that would’ve stopped Axel from coming in if he really wanted to, but it would’ve made Harry feel better regardless.

He removed his glasses and stripped out of his shabby clothes, shucking them to the floor without much care and climbing into the tub, pulling shut the shower curtains.

The water, which took an age and a half to heat up, felt like a blessing on his skin as it cascaded down over his body. It washed away layer after layer of grime that had accumulated over the long months on the run. He scrubbed and scrubbed with the soap, going over every inch of flesh—behind his ears, between his fingers and toes, the crook of his elbows and the backs of his knees—reveling in the scent of the soap, the heat of the water. How had he ever taken this for granted?

He massaged shampoo into his mop of hair, letting himself enjoy the way his fingers caressed his scalp.

After rinsing, he stood in the spray, just feeling the water wash over him. He stared unseeingly, feeling simultaneously like a huge weight had just been lifted from his shoulders and like the world he used to know—the world he’d fought so hard for—had been forever ripped from his fingertips.

A painful lump grew in his throat, one too big to swallow, and his shoulders slumped. He dipped his head and closed his eyes, pretending the tears that started trickling down his cheeks were nothing more than shower water. And if silent sobs racked his body and made his shoulders tremble, who would ever know but him?

A knock startled him from his melancholy, just in time to haul him back before he could tumble into a pit of despair. He snorted quietly at the thought that this might have been on purpose. It wasn’t like Axel could have any idea how miserable he was feeling. He’d made sure to keep his grief quiet, after all.

He took a long moment to compose himself, and after a couple of difficult swallows, he called out, “Come in.”

It was a second before he heard the door open, like Axel had hesitated. Harry dreaded the possibility that he suspected something, had heard something in Harry’s voice that would have given away his anguish.

But if that _was_ the case, Harry may never know, as Axel made no mention of it. “The clothes are on the counter. I brought you towels as well.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, his voice stronger now. It was almost enough to fool himself.

Axel only hummed in acknowledgement, and there was a long moment of silence where Harry wondered if he was meant to say something else. But then he heard a click as the door shut, and he was finally able to exhale the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

...


	3. The Most Important Piece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunger Games AU.
> 
> _“I think it was only a matter of time, really, until my name was drawn from that cup.”_
> 
> -
> 
> Harry’s name being called on Reaping Day of the 74th annual Hunger Games is hardly a shock. Everything being not as it seems, even less so.
> 
> In an apparent game of chance where the outcome is almost certainly already decided, Harry is the wild card no one’s expecting — least of all Tom Riddle, a volunteer tribute with a great deal of ambition and everything to lose.

I.

“... Harry Potter!”

Harry stood rigid at the sound of his name. He was sure a gust of wind could have knocked him right over in that moment as his heart thundered a rapid beat in his ears. Briefly, he wondered if this was what shock felt like.

But no.

He couldn’t say he was all that shocked.

The burn of hundreds of pairs of eyes on him made his skin crawl and the knowledge that hundreds more were watching him, judging him, from behind a screen was enough to make him want to make a scene. He didn’t dare, though, not when his eyes swept up and met those of Ginny Weasley.

Ginny was the picture of absolute calm, her features an unreadable mask. It was her eyes, however, alive with a fire Harry was exceedingly familiar with that kept his mouth shut and allowed him to be prodded none-so-gently to the podium. His eyes didn’t leave her face as his feet found the few steps up onto the podium of their own accord. It was a minor miracle that he didn’t trip, for which he was rather glad. He didn’t figure that would make the impression he would want to make.

Shame and anger twisted his stomach at the thought. It had been mere moments since his name had been selected from the cup, and already he was playing into the game the Ministry had intended for him with these reapings, even days away from the arena.

He took his place next to Rita Skeeter opposite Ginny and forced his eyes to roam over the crowd. There was the perfunctory applause Harry was all-too familiar with, but no cheering. In fact, it was almost eerily quiet once the clapping stopped. Faces young and old wore grim expressions. Any relief they might have been feeling was overpowered by the reality of two young people being sent to their almost certain demise.

After all, a District 9 tribute hadn’t won the Games in some twenty years, and Harry didn’t particularly feel like the odds were going in his favor.

When Harry’s eyes caught sight of a bundle of red-heads sequestered on the outskirts of the crowd, a pang of something sharp struck him in the region of his heart. Desolation was written clear as day on their faces as they looked at Ginny. He searched for his friend, Ron, and found that he was staring not at Ginny, but right back at him. His face was set in stony rage, and if he had not been too old by only a couple of months, Harry was convinced that right now he would be volunteering to take his place in a devoted, if ultimately idiotic, attempt to protect his sister.

Skeeter began rattling off the same spiel she gave every year about what an honor it was to be chosen for this momentous occasion. Harry thought, rather unkindly, that she could take her ‘honor’ and shove it up her arse.

She then turned to each of them in turn and asked — much too excitedly than was completely normal — how they felt about this opportunity. Harry’s scathing response died on his tongue at the minuscule shake of Ginny’s head, and he let her answer with some rubbish about what a privilege it was to be there. He could not make himself respond with anything other than a small nod of his head in ostensible agreement.

Skeeter stared at him from behind a pair of ridiculous purple glasses that certainly held more stylish purposes than practical, waiting very obviously for him to contribute something. He opened his mouth, barely taking in the warning look Ginny shot at him, and said, “I think it was only a matter of time, really, until my name was drawn from that cup.”

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The only one who visited Harry before they dragged him off to the Ministry was Ronald Weasley. This was an even more unsurprising development than being chosen as a tribute had been.

Harry didn’t even consider the Dursleys showing up. He was certain that for years they’d been putting more slips of his name in the cup in exchange for extra rations. They were probably the only ones actually celebrating the occasion. Whether he won or not, they would finally be rid of him.

And now that his name had been called, he had successfully clinched the possibility of their precious ‘Duddykins’ ever becoming tribute, for this was the last year either of them were eligible.

Harry scrutinized Ron’s clenched jaw and red-rimmed eyes and assumed he’d just been to visit Ginny.

“Hi, Ron. Thanks for coming to see me,” Harry said after it became clear Ron was only going to stare at him, expression inscrutable.

Harry hadn’t been sure he would come, and he wouldn’t have blamed him, either, for wanting to stay with his sister. Even if Ron _was_ about to threaten him on Ginny’s behalf, Harry was absurdly grateful that anyone bothered to see him at all before he was swept away and likely wouldn’t see any of them ever again.

“Of course I came, Harry. You’re my best mate.” Ron wasn’t looking at him now. His shoulders were curled inwards, like an immense weight had been placed upon his shoulders, and a sudden wave of sympathy for him washed over Harry.

Before he could swallow the words, he was saying, “I’m sorry… You know, about Ginny.” He winced and shut his mouth before he could mention Fred.

Ron shuddered, and then visibly pulled himself together, his broad shoulders straightening. “Don’t be ridiculous, Harry. That wasn’t your fault, there’s no way you could have stopped it from happening. None of us could have. It’s those bloody _wankers_ at the — ” Ron wisely cut himself off, glancing about the room in a way that told Harry he was looking for cameras. And even if there were any, Harry thought, they wouldn’t be able to see them. Harry was convinced the Ministry had ways of spying on the people that only they knew about.

“Look, Harry,” Ron continued after a moment. Harry saw the struggle on his face and had an idea of where this conversation was going. “I’m not… I’m not gonna ask you to give your life for her, or anything, because that isn’t fair, but… I just— could you— ”

“It’s alright, Ron. I understand.” Harry smiled weakly in an attempt to stop Ron from looking so miserable. “Of course I’ll try my best to look after her. I’m offended you even thought you had to ask.”

A heavy weight was suddenly upon him as Ron’s long arms wrapped him up and pulled him into a hug that hindered Harry’s ability to draw breath. He didn’t even pretend to put up a struggle, falling into the embrace like it was the only thing keeping him standing.

“I’m gonna miss you, mate.”

“Christ, I’m not dead, yet,” Harry said, voice muffled by the press of fabric. His head was buried in Ron’s shoulder, and he desperately wished in that instance that Ron would just never let go. That time would cease, and he could spend the rest of forever right here.

But unfortunately Harry could not stop time, and Ron could not stay, and there was a train waiting to take him to the Ministry, a ticket to hell with his name on it.

And as the train sped by fields of wheat, a sight so familiar after years of staring at them from atop a hill, moving at speeds greater than Harry could possibly comprehend, Harry couldn’t say with any degree of certainty whether the life waiting for him was really any worse than the one he was leaving behind.

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II.

By the time Harry had pulled himself out of the carriage—much bigger than the room he’d had at the Dursleys’, if that could even be called a room—he would temporarily reside in until they reached the Ministry, Ginny was already sat at a table filled with enough food to feed an entire family in District 9 for at least a week. Across from her sat Skeeter, who was mumbling on about something or other, Harry couldn’t hear, while admiring her inch-long crimson nails. Ginny’s hand was clenched around a fork, her knuckles white from how tightly she was gripping it, and from the look on her face Harry thought Skeeter might soon find herself dripping in stew if Ginny lost her temper before Harry could intervene.

He quickened his pace and pulled out a chair beside Ginny, plopping down. Ginny’s grip on her fork eased a bit and Harry relaxed, muttering, for lack of anything better, a low, “Hullo.”

“Hello, dear.” Skeeter’s smile was anything but sincere when she looked up from her perusal of her terrifying nails. “Have you eaten yet?”

Harry refrained from pointing out that he’d only just got there and hadn’t had the chance to so much as add a dollop of mashed potatoes to his plate and said only, “Er, I was just about to.”

Harry wasn’t particularly hungry, but even he knew how stupid it would be to turn down any food he was provided before the Games. After all, these would be the last true, filling meals he could count on before he’d be scavenging in the arena. He knew it was possible, likely even, that he would have to go days without any sustenance. His only comfort was that at least that wasn’t anything new. It was a small, bitter comfort.

Ginny didn’t say anything but took an aggressive bite out of a chicken leg that made her displeasure explicitly clear.

It was apparent she too knew the importance of eating, even if she didn’t particularly look to be enjoying it.

Harry helped himself to some of the mashed potatoes, chicken, and bread, and even some of the treacle tart which Petunia had baked on rare occasions but never allowed him to eat. It was as delicious as it had always looked.

“Miss Skeeter?” Harry asked after his plate was clean and his dinner had been washed down by two glasses of water.

“You can call me Rita, dear.” Skeeter breathed on the lens of her glasses, then brought up the end of her scarf to wipe them off, not once deigning to look at him.

“Er, okay,” Harry said, though he had no intention of making a habit of talking to her. “Do you know where our mentor is, by chance?”

That got Skeeter’s attention. She purposely placed her glasses back on the tip of her nose and regarded the both of them before huffing a laugh. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him, dear. He’ll speak with you tonight before you go to bed.”

“He won’t be speaking to both of us, together, then?” Ginny asked, sounding entirely unsurprised even though this was news to Harry.

“Mr Black prefers to train his tributes one-on-one.” Skeeter’s eyes sparkled like she was granting them an especially juicy bit of gossip. Harry supposed that idle “gossip” might have been the only way people like her found entertainment in the rather droll life she must live in the Capitol, parading around as if her will was truly her own. Upon reflection, he found he pitied her more than he could ever really hate her.

She reminded him of the Dursleys, in a way. They only hated the oddities of the people in the Capitol insofar as they differed from their own ways of life. Harry knew if, had they half the chance, they would happily don fluorescent wigs and eccentric garb if it meant they could abandon the hardships of a life living in an outlying District promised.

Harry refrained from asking Skeeter why Black only trained his tributes one-on-one, not expecting an answer of any value anyway and went back to eating. He told himself he wouldn’t stop until his stomach felt like it would burst, and he hoped he didn’t make himself sick.

After, Harry tried to talk to Ginny, but she made it clear she had nothing to say to him and hid herself in her own carriage before he could really say anything. It was probably for the best, Harry thought, because he didn’t know what he could possibly say to her. _Good luck? Hope you don’t die? I promise I won’t kill you?_

For as long as he had known her, Ginny had been a ball of vibrancy and tenacity. Harry couldn’t imagine a world that existed where she would ever— _could_ ever—just lay down and give up. Certainly not here. Certainly not now.

Ginny always spoke of the Ministry with a loathing that he could never quite empathize with. He had never had something as precious as a brother ripped from him. He had never had to watch a loved one be slaughtered, simply because the only people with the power to stop it had not deemed his life one worth saving. He had never felt hatred so fierce it was capable of toppling everything and everyone that stood in its way. Not even for the Dursleys.

Ginny screamed of injustice to anyone who would listen, passionate, reckless, and terrifying. She raged against cowardice and people so sick in the head they thought innocent children being murdered by the hands of other children an apt form of entertainment. _Pointless_ , she’d shout until she lost her voice. _So pointless!_

Harry was as awed by her resistance as he was wary of it.

The hostility Ginny exuded ever since she stepped up to that podium was more understandable when he wasn’t simply a bystander. He had always known, somehow, however subconsciously, that he was damned. He probably had been from the minute he’d been born.

But the undeniable proof, _Harry Potter_ ringing in his ears like a prophecy coming to fruition, was different than an instinct. It was evidence that his life was not his own, his fate was not his own. Somewhere along the line, his future had been decided for him.

The sheer _unfairness_ burned him.

So Harry didn’t blame Ginny for her antagonism. If anything, he wanted her to know he wasn’t foolish enough to stand in her way.

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Harry lay in bed that night almost having completely forgotten about Sirius Black meeting with him, so it came as a bit of a shock to hear a knock at his door in the middle of the night. He wished he could say it had woken him up, but he could barely close his eyes for more than a few seconds before opening them again, his mind racing with endless possibilities. In his head, he died a hundred different ways, and Ginny a hundred more. If he could not even fall asleep in the relative safety of a moving train, then how would he possibly find any rest in the arena? These thoughts plagued him until he was forced to get up and open the door.

Black looked much as he did the few times Harry had seen him on television. Up close though, his eyes were a deep brown, not black. His long hair was an artful tangled mess and his breath smelled heavily of alcohol. Harry winced at the stench.

“Harry Potter as I live and breathe.” Black pushed by him into the room and collapsed gracelessly into an armchair beside the bed. The lamp on the nightstand flickered on without a hint of Black even reaching for it, and Harry thought maybe he was quite tired after all. “C’mere, Harry. Sit. We have much to talk about.”

Harry did as he was bid, closing the door behind him. He sat on the side of the bed in front of Black and studied him while he studied Harry. A scar as long as his pointer finger marred Black’s skin, running down from his forehead across his eye and over his cheek. Outlined in gold from the glow of the lamplight, it gave him a rugged handsomeness that was simultaneously unnerving and captivating. Harry almost wanted to ask if he could still see out of his right eye, but the question sounded stupid and silly even inside his head.

Black must have noticed his staring because he said, “That’s what happens when you trust people.”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean?”

Black sighed and bowed his head so that his hair fell over his face like a curtain. Quietly, he said, “These games… they change people. Even the most innocuous of us can turn into cold-blooded killers when we’re pushed far enough.”

“I won’t,” Harry said immediately, and then wondered where his conviction came from. He wasn’t stupid, after all, and he knew Black was right. People _did_ change in the arena. Nothing like carnivorous plants, hellish environments, and homicidal children to make a person desperate.

But not him, Harry told himself. He didn’t want to become a killer.

Black looked up with a smile on his face. It wasn’t mocking or unkind, but almost… sad. Harry sucked in a breath.

“Of course you won’t.”

Harry couldn’t discern the truth of that statement and didn’t try.

“Petra Pettigrew,” Black stated, the name holding a weight of significance Harry could not identify.

“What?”

“Petra was the girl tribute chosen to represent District 9 with me for the 52nd Hunger Games.” Black smiled again, but this one was more bitter. “We trained together. We fought together. We allied with each other. I thought we trusted each other.”

Harry swallowed and felt his heart begin to race as Black turned to look out the carriage window, unblinking.

“She gave me the scar,” Black continued after a few long minutes of uncomfortable silence, turning back to Harry. “People change. You might think you know yourself. You might think you know Ginny. I’m telling you you’re wrong.”

“But— ”

“No, Harry. You have to remember there can only be one victor. You can’t trust anyone in the arena, and they can’t trust you. Ginny already knows this. That’s the kind of thing that will get you killed.”

“You talked to Ginny?”

Black nodded.

Questions were bubbling inside Harry, but only one really mattered right now. “Why did you ally yourself with Petra, then? Are you saying you would’ve turned on her? That you would’ve killed her?”

“I’m saying that I did.”

A bucket of ice water might as well have dropped on Harry for how chilled he suddenly felt. “No,” he protested. “No, I would never kill Ginny. I would never even hurt her.”

“You might not have a choice— ”

“No! There’s always a choice.” Harry felt hot, like his insides were burning. Something simmered beneath his skin, and his head spun. “What’s the point of all this? Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to win.”

Silence fell over them as Harry pondered those words, still dizzy. They were words any mentor would say to their tribute, but the way they were said—frantic and unyielding—was a surprise to Harry. It almost sounded like Black cared about him. More than was normal, more than was expected, accepted even—like he was invested in him. Harry couldn’t for the life of him figure out why that would be.

“Merlin, you remind me of your mother,” Black said, apropos of nothing.

The entire sentence threw Harry for a loop— _Who was Merlin?_ —but the part he grasped onto was, “You knew my mum?”

Harry could imagine how he looked sitting there, barely restrained hope and yearning pushing him closer to where Black sat. He never knew his parents, not even their names. He only knew that they had died when he was very young, that Petunia was very much _not_ his mother, and Vernon was _not_ his father. That they had found him on their doorstep when he was a baby and took him in. Certainly not out of the goodness of their hearts, although Harry couldn’t say for sure what the actual reason was. Perhaps because it made them look good in front of the neighbors, gave them the rights to some sympathy points. Harry could only assume.

Black’s face hardened from the inexplicably fond look he’d been giving him. The change was so sudden, Harry worried he’d said or done something wrong.

“They didn’t tell you, did they?”

“Who didn’t tell me what?”

“Those damnable Muggles!”

“What’s a— ”

“Nevermind that.” Black waved a hand that shut Harry up, even though questions were almost bursting from the tip of his tongue. “Your mother was Lily Evans, Harry. Victor of the 53rd Hunger Games.”

It wasn’t what Harry was expecting. He wasn’t really sure what he _was_ expecting, but that definitely wasn’t it. Everyone in District 9 knew the story of Lily Evans and Sirius Black, the two Victors who’d come from the same district twice in a row, an occurrence virtually unheard of outside of career districts.

Sirius Black, of course, went on to make a life for himself in the Capitol, and it looked like Lily Evans would follow in his footsteps until a tragic car accident took her, her husband’s, and purportedly her only child’s life.

It never would have occurred to him that _he_ was that child.

Black reached into the inside of his leather jacket and pulled something out from a pocket there. It turned out to be a golden locket with a red ruby carved into the shape of a heart embellishing the front. He handed it to Harry with more care than Harry would have expected from him.

“That was your mother’s,” Black said, leaning back in his chair once Harry had accepted the locket from him. “She wore it into the arena; thought it was a good luck charm or some rot like that. That’s what she said. It was left to me when she died, but… I think you should have it now.”

Harry studied the locket, fingers trembling where the chain was wrapped around them. His thumb stroked the ruby and his palm burned from where the pendant lay, pulsing with heat as if it were a living thing.

He thought it was probably the loveliest gift he had ever been, or ever would be, given.

“Don’t wear it around your neck, obviously. You don’t need to give anyone a reason to strangle you. Your mum kept it round her wrist.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, his voice coming out barely above a whisper. He had to swallow a lump in his throat, and he hoped Black didn’t notice the rapid blinking of his eyes, or otherwise just pretended he didn’t see it.

“Nothing to thank me for. Your mother would want you to have it.” Black looked fidgety and stood up rather suddenly. “I’m sorry… for not giving it to you before now. And for not coming to visit. I was good friends with your parents, you know. I should’ve— ” Black cut himself off abruptly, looking frustrated with himself. “Well, anyway, I’m gonna let you sleep now.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest—he had so many more questions he needed answers to; Black couldn’t just tell him all of that and expect him not to want more information—but Black cut him off before any words came out. “I’ll answer all your questions tomorrow, but it’s going to be a long day and you need to rest. Goodnight, Harry.”

The door falling shut behind Black when he left put an end to Harry’s argument, as one couldn’t very well argue with a door. But Harry’s mind continued to race long after Black had departed, thoughts of Lily Evans, his _mum,_ taking the place of the imaginings of his brutal end.

Not once did the locket stop burning.

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III.

Harry woke with a jolt, his heart racing with his panic. Unsurprisingly, the many images of death he’d been envisioning the night before had carried into his dreams.

A burning heat in his palm shook him from his dread, and he looked down at his hand where it was clutching at a locket. He relaxed his grip as he remembered last night. Sirius Black coming to see him, telling him about his own experiences in the Games, revealing who his mum was, giving him her locket.

The information was overwhelming, even more so than it had been last night. His mum had been a Victor. His _mum_ had been a _Victor_.

He knew who his mother was.

He knew that what he was going through now, she had gone through once before him. And she had survived it. The thought was almost comforting. Almost.

A loud knocking at his door startled Harry so badly he almost dropped the locket. “Up you get, Harry, darling!” Skeeter’s saccharine voice filtered through the closed door. “We’re almost at the Ministry! You’ll want to eat breakfast before then.”

The sound of heels clacking faded away into nothing, and Harry assumed Skeeter had left. He looked at the locket once more and then determinedly got out of bed and tossed on the clothes left for him on a chair that he hadn’t noticed yesterday. The shirt and pants were black, tailored to fit him perfectly, and the fabric was of nicer quality than anything he’d ever seen, let alone owned.

It hit him as he looked out the window and saw modern buildings whizz by that he would be in the Capitol today. That this was really happening, and that there was truly no going back. He didn’t know if it was fear he was feeling, or something else entirely.

He left his carriage with his mother’s locket wrapped firmly around his left wrist where his pulse was still beating rapidly.

Ginny was already at the same table they’d eaten at yesterday when he appeared, with Skeeter sitting in the same spot across from her. Her expression was predictably sour even as she remained silent, and as he got closer he could hear Skeeter prattling on about the Ministry.

“... it really is quite magnificent. Oh, you’ll absolutely love it, darling, it isn’t anything like what you’ve seen in that wretched little District you come from.”

“That ‘ _wretched little District_ ’ was my _home_ ,” Ginny snarled, her fists clenched on top of the table next to her empty plate. “And I can assure you, if the Ministry is filled with people anything like _you_ , I much prefer it there!”

“Everything all right?” Harry interrupted, looking between Ginny’s red face and Skeeter’s narrowed eyes warily. He took the seat beside Ginny and for the first time noticed that Black wasn’t there. This seemed to be a common occurrence, and Harry was unsurprised, if a bit disappointed. He still had so many questions from their conversation last night.

“Fine,” Ginny grit out through clenched teeth. She began methodically dumping food onto her plate without seeming to notice—or care—what food it was. Harry followed suit, his movements much more restrained in the tense environment.

They ate in rigid silence for the remainder of the meal. His stomach clenched nauseatingly when he felt the train coming to a stop, and he reckoned he could hear the shouting and excitement from those awaiting his and Ginny’s arrival. Although that might have just been his imagination.

“Ah, good, we’re here.” Skeeter stood up gracefully, as if it was a practiced movement. Her outfit consisted of a lime green peacoat and pencil skirt of the same shade. The colour wasn’t doing anything to help soothe Harry’s stomach. “Look alive, my darlings, or they may just eat youalive.”

Her grin was vicious, and Harry felt a shiver ripple through him.

They emerged onto the platform to an explosion of noise. Harry had to blink several times before he could see properly after the flashes of cameras blinded him. Trying to follow Skeeter and Ginny out of the carriage was an effort, even without people shouting and trying desperately to get his attention from behind barricades. He forced a bright smile onto his face and waved in his best imitation of open and friendly as he could stomach.

He cringed when a little girl, who couldn’t have been older than 5 or 6 years old, reached for his hand over the barricade, practically dangling over it with only a precarious grip on the edge for balance. A swell of pity rose up in him, noticing her bright pink dress—hardly appropriate for the weather, as cloudy as it was outside with a brisk wind coming from the west—and the people standing behind her, who he thought might be her parents. By the way they were shouting and grinning, they were only encouraging her. Did they even care about the risky position she had been put in?

Harry’s smile faltered but he didn’t let it slip. He followed Ginny, mimicking her confident march and how she held her head high, her smile as false as the people who cheered for her.

He thought, for the first time, that maybe he could do this. Maybe he could be what the Ministry wanted him to be. And maybe when he was tired of that, he could show them why he would _never_ be who they wanted him to be.

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The Ministry was immense. Even more so than he remembered from seeing it on the television. It resembled everything else he’d seen of the Capitol so far, except it was somehow… _more._ More ornate, more impressive than anything else he’d seen.

That was probably the point, he thought.

He and Ginny were led up to the ninth floor of the building, where they’d be staying until the Games began. They passed Aurors along the way, who were roaming the hallways and standing guard at the lifts. He knew them by their red uniforms—District 9 had some as well, whose express purpose was to “keep the peace,” although they seemed more inclined to eat the baked goods no one else in the district could afford and generally sit around all day on their arses being useless unless there was a disturbance.

_These_ Aurors, at least, seemed to take their jobs a bit more seriously.

They were told they would have the floor entirely to themselves, and it was certainly as grand as Harry would’ve expected from the Ministry. Skeeter had obviously been there before as she led them to a room with high ceilings and a polished, entirely black tiled floor. There was an inexplicable indoor waterfall—where the water was coming from, Harry couldn’t tell—and a giant window that made up the whole opposite wall.

Harry’s own room was just as stunning and even larger than the carriage he’d had on the train. The bed was probably his favorite part about it. He didn’t know what sleeping on a cloud felt like, but he imagined this bed was as close to a cloud as he was ever likely to get.

Too bad he would hardly be able to enjoy it.

By dinnertime, Harry still hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Black, and he couldn’t help but feel like the day had been wasted away. His nerves were causing sweat to slick his hands and he couldn’t stop fidgeting.

The dining table was much too large for just the three of them—Harry, Ginny, and Skeeter—but Harry didn’t notice. He was grudgingly anticipating watching the other Reapings, which Skeeter had said would be aired on the telly after dinner.

Twenty-two other tributes. Kids, Harry’s mind supplied unrepentantly. Twenty-four of them in total. All of whom would die in the next few weeks, depending on how long the games lasted. All but one.

Harry realized he didn’t want to know them. Didn’t want to see their faces or know their names. Didn’t want to imagine one of them bringing an end to his life. Certainly didn’t want to imagine one of them dying by his own hand.

But he knew he would watch. He may have been many things, but a coward Harry was not.

That didn’t mean he didn’t flinch slightly when Skeeter finally did flick on the TV.

“Why, hello everybody!” came the voice of Gilderoy Lockhart, before his face popped up on screen, his smile blinding and his golden hair fashionably swept to the side of his forehead. Harry thought he heard a whimper come from Skeeter’s side of the table. “I am your host, Gilderoy Lockhart, and it is my pleasure to welcome you all to the 74th annual Hunger Games!” This announcement was met with thunderous applause. Lockhart prattled on about the Games as he did every year, and Harry mostly zoned out as he did every year, not interested in hearing the Games explained again. He already knew very well what they entailed.

“These contestants are already shaping up to be some of the most fascinating tributes since the 71st Games.” Footage of such Games took the place of Lockhart’s face on screen, showing Hermione Granger of District 5, and how she’d come out victorious. Harry remembered those Games and how Hermione had won by outwitting every other tribute. He didn’t listen to Lockhart’s rehashing of events, merely stared at the familiar up close shot of Hermione, her brown eyes hard and her lips a grim line. The footage panned out to show how her arm stretched out, her hand grasping a wand with a grip no one would expect from such a slight girl.

Lockhart continued.

“From District 1, we have 17 year olds Bellatrix Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy.” On screen a boy and a girl stood side-by-side. The boy’s blond—almost white—hair and pale complexion stood out in stark contrast to the girl’s dark hair and shadowed eyes. While the boy—Malfoy’s—eyes gleamed with acute intelligence, the Lestrange girl had something a little more unstable, a little more sinistershining from hers. “Lucius’ father, Abraxas Malfoy, won the Games 23 years ago and is subsequently this year’s District 1 mentor…”

Gooseflesh raised on Harry’s arm as he stared at them, already feeling whatever confidence he might have had draining like Vernon’s fleeting coin while he ill-advisedly visited those dank—and illegal—pubs.

Next was Alecto Carrow and Antonin Dolohov from District 2. They both stood painfully straight-backed, their faces twisted in threatening scowls. Harry didn’t doubt they were equally as dangerous as the tributes from District 1. An uncomfortable weight sunk in his stomach, and he clutched at it, praying he wouldn’t be sick.

And so it went. Eileen Prince and Tobias Snape were introduced as the tributes from District 3; Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum were the career tributes from District 4…

Harry watched, transfixed, as each new tribute was introduced, the uneasy feeling in his stomach steadily growing into something physically painful.

He zoned out when his and Ginny’s own Reapings took the screen, not wishing to relive the experience. Staring at Ginny instead did nothing to calm him, however. Her face was completely blank, unlike anything he had ever seen from her before, and it set him on edge. Black’s words from the night before came back to him unwittingly. _People change. You might think you know yourself. You might think you know Ginny. I’m telling you you’re wrong._

The simmering came back, like something almost physical bubbling just beneath his skin. Harry shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts, and turned back to the telly.

After a few minutes, the last of the tributes were finally announced, to Harry’s not inconsiderable relief. He just wanted to turn the television off and go to sleep—if sleep decided to come to him, that was.

He wasn’t expecting much—he couldn’t recall the last time a tribute of District 12 had won the Games. Of the Games he’d witnessed in his short life, none of their tributes had ever lasted long. Certainly not long enough to be declared champion.

Harry figured that really should have been his first hint. After all, that would have been too easy for the likes of him.

“And last—but certainly not least—from District 12, we have Myrtle Warren and Tom Riddle—who is, perhaps, the most interesting tribute we’ve seen from this year’s pool of contestants.” The camera panned to a girl and a boy, both of whom were as different from each other as night and day.

The girl was small and skinny, her face drawn, pallid, and terrified. She stood hunched over with her eyes glued to the floor, and Harry guessed she was no older than fourteen.

But the boy…

Harry sucked in a sharp breath. The boy was… well, _stunning_ was the only word that came to mind. He was at least two heads taller than the girl, and he stood perfectly at ease with his hands behind his back. His skin was like fine porcelain, his jaw sharp, and his dark hair was slicked back stylishly on his head. His clothes, while worn, were neat and well-cared for, and fit him snugly in all the right places.

He stared straight ahead with an air of satisfaction about him. This in itself caught Harry off-guard, but not as much as Lockhart’s next words.

“Not much is known about Tom except that he grew up in an orphanage and is the first person from District 12 to have volunteered for the Games in over sixty years.”

Harry straightened at that. Volunteered?He had _volunteered_? But… nobody from non-career districts just _volunteered_ for the Games. It wasn’t a rule so much as it was a perfectly valid survival tactic.

Footage of Riddle volunteering started playing on the screen. Harry grew cold at how detached he sounded while saying the words that would change a person’s entire life, at how impassive he appeared walking up to the podium.

Riddle answered the questions posed by the lady dressed in pink—who Harry assumed was District 12’s escort—with witty intelligence and charm that would do nothing to endear him to the citizens of District 12 but would probably have people in the Capitol falling at his feet. His voice was deep and rich—unforgettable—but as the camera got a close up of him, it was his eyes that snagged Harry’s attention and sent a chill rippling down his spine.

They were impossibly dark, icy hard, and void of any of the emotion that might have matched his words.

He was startled by Skeeter muttering, “Why, he’s a handsome one isn’t he?”

The words hardly registered, however, because it was at that moment that Harry recognized this boy—from _District 12_ , of all places—was perhaps the most dangerous of them all.

Skeeter might fall for the sweet poison of his tone, the deadly promise of his words, and the fabricated innocence of his appearance, but Harry knew better.

Nobody just volunteered for the Games. Not unless they had a reason. Not unless they thought they could _win_.

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IV.

Harry readied for bed that night with the heavy feeling in his gut having only grown heavier.

Dark eyes haunted him whenever he thought of the Reapings, even though he tried very hard not to think about them as he pulled on gray silk pajamas. They were too soft against his skin, smooth and weightless—almost as if he wasn’t wearing anything at all. He was sure they were meant to be opulent, but he decided he didn’t much care for them. Right now he’d give anything for his own worn, cotton pajamas. Just to have something familiar. Some way to remember the boy he had been.

He had a feeling he’d never be him again.

Crawling under the sheets did nothing to soothe him. A big bed with lavish sheets and a mattress softer than he would have imagined anything was possible to be might have been a luxury, had it not been for the hefty price. No kind of possession, expensive or otherwise, was worth a person’s life.

A knock sounded on his door close to midnight, and he hadn’t so much as closed his eyes for longer than it took to blink. At this rate, he’d get into the Arena only to promptly pass out and die of exhaustion. He was pretty sure that had happened before.

The door swung open slightly, and a head popped in. “Harry?” Black asked in a whisper. “You still awake?”

Harry grunted in reply, scooting up his bed until his back rested against the headboard and leaning over to turn on a lamp. The locket dangled from his wrist.

Black strode to his bedside and sat down on the edge without waiting for an invitation. He still smelled vaguely of alcohol, but Harry was coming to expect that from him.

After a moment where Black stared at him and Harry shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, Black asked, “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better.” He’d meant for the words to come out wry and humorous, to try and ease the tension. But his tone was too stilted and, frankly, nothing about this situation was funny. Black nodded anyway, as if he understood.

Harry supposed he probably did.

The silence stretched and the uncomfortable weight in his stomach started to make him antsy. There were so many questions zipping through his head that he couldn’t manage to pin a single one down for long enough to figure out how to articulate it. What was worse, he didn’t know if he should be concentrating on sticking to topics that had to do with the Games, or whether he should try to get more information about his parents. He knew what he wanted most, but he also recognized he only had so much time with Black before they shipped him and the other twenty-three tributes off to the Arena—if he stood any chance of winning at all, he’d be wise to make the most of that time.

Luckily, Black took the decision out of his hands when he asked a question of his own.

“Have you ever made things happen, Harry?”

“What?”

Black’s lips curled for a moment before he elaborated. “When you were angry or upset. Did anything odd ever happen? Something out of the ordinary, something you couldn’t explain?”

Harry’s face scrunched up in befuddlement. He thought he should be cross that Black was choosing to ask him nonsense questions when he could be taking this time to coach Harry in ways not to, you know, die. But he was simply too bewildered.

“I—what? No, I— ” But Harry paused, because maybe the question was not completely inane after all. Memories came to him then, instances where things _had_ happened, strange things that should not have been possible. Those times he’d been chased by Dudley and his cronies, only to find himself suddenly out of their reach, tucked into a convenient tree or trapped on top of a not-so-convenient rooftop. The ridiculous hair-cut Petunia had seen fit to give him that had somehow grown back overnight. Dropping things that never seemed to actually hit the ground.

Black raised an eyebrow when Harry trailed off, regarding him for a few moments before grinning. “Do you know why those things happened?”

Harry had the feeling Black was about to enlighten him.

“Magic.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“Magic, Harry. You’re a wizard.”

It wasn’t that Harry thought he had misheard. Black sat only a meter away from him, and Harry didn’t take him for the mumbling type. But he almost had to convince himself he _had_ misheard, or otherwise accept that Black had gone and lost the plot. And if Harry’s mentor was actually insane, then what did that mean for him?

Black must’ve seen the skepticism plain as day written across his face, because he was suddenly shaking his arm until a slim, wooden stick had slipped out of his right sleeve and settled comfortably in his hand.

“How do you have a _wand_?” Harry exclaimed, his head racing. As far as he knew, wands were only ever used inside the Arena. He supposed it was possible the Gamemakers allowed Victors to keep the wands after they’d won, but Black was one of the few Victors notorious for having triumphed without the use of one.

“Because I’m a wizard, too.” Black brought his hand up and, with a flick of his wrist, whispered, “ _Lumos_.”

A warm light started to glow from the tip of Black’s wand, as bright—if not brighter—as the light gleaming from the lamp.

Harry’s eyes widened as he studied the wand, unable to find any apparent source for the light. “How…?”

In District 9, the explanation for wands was really quite simple. They were just more of the same fancy, hard-to-comprehend technological gadgets that were commonly used in the Games. The wand was considered the most powerful tool—or weapon—in the game, as it somehow granted the wielder control inside the Arena; likeness to the control only Gamemakers themselves were usually capable of.

The tribute who controlled the wand almost always came out as the Victor.

But this wasn’t the Arena, and Harry found it hard to believe that _this_ wand was a remote control a Gamemaker was secretly directing.

“ _Nox_.”

The light disappeared. Harry stared at Black, whose grin hadn’t slipped for a second.

“Like I said. Magic.”

Harry could only shake his head in disbelief. It wasn’t possible. Was it? Magic simply couldn’t exist in a world as drab as this one. Or at least, not like the one he’d known in District 9.

But maybe in the world of the Capitol, magic could exist. Maybe it was different here.

“Here,” Black said, thrusting the hilt of the wand towards Harry. “You give it a go.”

Harry hesitantly accepted the wand. It was unexpectedly warm, similar to the heat radiating from his mother’s locket, and he suddenly had the uncanny idea that it was _alive_. Ridiculous.

With an uncertain glance at Black, Harry flicked his wrist in an imitation of the way he’d seen Black do, and whispered, “ _Lumos_.”

Sparks flickered from the end of the wand, but eventually a dim glow reluctantly glimmered into life. Harry felt a thrill shoot through his veins. He’d had this feeling before, and now he finally knew what it was. Had the proof of it right in front of his very own eyes.

He had magic. He could _feel_ it. It simmered beneath his skin, pooled into all the empty spaces in his body, warmed him from the inside out. It was incredible. Undeniable.

Harry stared at the light in awe, and then he stared at Black. Black, whose grin had somehow, inconceivably, stretched even wider. “Impressive. Wands are extremely finicky, you know.”

“How do you mean?”

“The wand chooses the wizard, Harry. They’re sensitive to their master’s magic. That means that not just any old wizard can control ‘em.” Black regarded him. “The fact you were able to get that spell to work using _my_ wand on the first go… It’s impressive.”

Harry still didn’t quite understand why Black kept saying that. It didn’t feel particularly “impressive.” It felt completely natural. Easy, almost. Like the magic was only too happy to bend reality to Harry’s whims.

“ _Nox_.” Again, the light disappeared.

“So, I have magic,” he muttered aloud, mostly to himself. The words continued to sound a little ridiculous but, to Harry’s surprise, completely true.

But what about everyone else? Did everyone in District 9 have magic as well, but had just never realized it? Or was he… special?

He had to admit, he couldn’t very well picture Vernon waving a wand about. The very image made him snort. But Sirius, at least, was a wizard, so that meant…

“Are all tributes magical, then?” It would make sense, if one of them was meant to control the wand.

Black hesitated, his excitement falling into a frown. “No, not all of them. You’ll come to learn that the Ministry operates in a certain way, for various reasons, and these Games are much more complex than you could’ve imagined.”

Harry swallowed nervously at these ominous words.

“The Hunger Games used to be exactly that… games. Sick and twisted, but generally only used to provide entertainment for the Capitol with the added bonus of reminding the Districts just who was in charge.”

“And now?”

Black smiled bitterly, as if he was pleased that Harry was catching on and starting to ask the right questions. “Now they’re used to reveal the most powerful witches and wizards from the Districts so they can recruit them to their ‘cause’.

“For decades, the Ministry was controlled by witches and wizards who took pleasure in ruling over Muggles with an oppressive hand, with Muggles being none the wiser to any of it.”

“Muggles… are people without magic,” Harry surmised, glancing at Black for confirmation.

Black nodded. “And they didn’t used to be so defenseless, either. Years and years ago, it was Muggles who terrorized us.”

Harry shivered involuntarily at the use of the word _us_. Because he was one of them now. A wizard.

“The Capitol separated Muggles from those with magic into different Districts—witches and wizards are primarily found in Districts 1, 2, and 4—I believe you know these as career Districts.”

Harry nodded.

“The other nine are filled with Muggles. Some witches and wizards, however, were relegated to these Districts for their opposition to the Ministry.” Black’s voice lowered. “Not everyone believed that Muggles should be subjugated, and that hasn’t changed… Your parents held those same beliefs.”

Harry’s head snapped up. “My parents?”

“Yes, Harry. Your mum and dad were part of a secret resistance that challenges the ideals of the Ministry.”

A fierce sense of grief and pride warred inside his chest that rendered him a speechless, gaping mess. His parents had been fighters—brave and selfless, defenders of the principles they had believed in.

It had always weighed on him to some degree not knowing what had become of them. Had they just left him on some strangers’ doorstep because they didn’t want him? What could he really think, since no one had ever said a word about his parents? But now he knew… Petunia Dursley (née _Evans_ , how had he never put it together before?) had been the sister of Lily Evans. The same Lily who won the Hunger Games twenty-one years ago.

Lily and her husband—his _dad_ —had been so much more, so much _better_ , than he had ever allowed himself to imagine.

Harry had wondered many times before who his father was, but he had been especially desperate to know since the moment he’d learned who his mum was. But Black had left that night before he’d had the chance to ask. It had almost seemed like Black had deliberately chosen not to mention his dad. Even now, Black did not use his name. It made Harry nervous, a bit, but he had to know. This was quite probably his only chance to find out.

“Mr Black,” he began unsurely. “Who was my father?”

Black went rigid, his stare unfocussing, his face going curiously blank. That familiar uncomfortable feeling surged back to life in Harry’s stomach.

Then Black blinked, his gaze clearing, and a tight, forced smile tilted his lips up. “You don’t have to call me that, Harry,” Black said absently. “Sirius is fine.”

“Er, alright,” Harry agreed. “Sirius, then.”

_Sirius_ exhaled a loud puff of air through his nose. “Your dad’s name was James. James Fleamont Potter.” He snorted unexpectedly. “Merlin help you if he ever heard you call him _Fleamont_ , though.” He trailed off, a reminiscent grin lighting his face that steadily dimmed into one of remorse. “I met him when I first came to the Capitol. He was my best friend. My brother, really. There wasn’t anyone I was closer to than him.”

A fierce wave of pure _longing_ swept through Harry, a yearning to know his dad as Sirius had known him, that made tears rise to his eyes. He blinked them away in embarrassment and stared at Sirius, hoping he’d share more of his dad with him.

Sirius didn’t disappoint. “Best man I ever knew, your dad. Your mum, too, was as brilliant as you’d imagine her to be. Did you know I was the one who introduced them?” Harry assumed the question was rhetorical, because _of course_ not. “Your dad was positively smitten from the first time he met Lily. There were never two people more perfect for each other, I tell you.” Sirius leaned over and pulled something from his back trouser pocket. “Here. Brought this for you.”

It was an extremely tiny book. Harry watched in amazed silence as Sirius brandished his wand at it, muttering a spell he couldn’t hear that caused it to expand until it was at least twice the size of his palm and two fingers thick. He could only think of how convenient such a spell could be when lugging things around. It occurred to him then just how _cool_ magic was.

Sirius passed him the book, its cover a worn leather with an unfamiliar crest impressed on the front of it with two mighty stags on either side, front legs kicking into the air. Harry opened it to find it was a photo album.

It was filled with photos that moved—Harry wasn’t exactly surprised anymore, but he did think it was kind of brilliant. Many of them were of a beautiful woman with fiery red hair that he recognized as Lily Evans (or Lily _Potter_ , he supposed) and a tall man with wild, black hair—exactly like Harry’s own—that must have been James. A younger Sirius showed up quite often in the photos, as did a lanky man with blond hair that Harry didn’t recognize. A baby with green eyes frequently appeared too, who Harry knew to be himself.

This time Harry could not help the tears that trickled down his cheeks and dripped from his chin as he flipped through the pages one by one. He appreciated Sirius’ averted gaze even though he knew it was only a pretense of privacy.

“Thank you,” he croaked, hoping Sirius would hear the silent, _For all of it._

Sirius set his palm over Harry’s knee and squeezed.

And Harry thought nothing else really needed to be said.

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...


	4. Heart of the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pirate AU.
> 
> The pirate called Voldemort is the greatest threat that plagues the seas. He is the curse of the Caribbean, the nightmare that haunts the dreams of even the most gallant of sailors, and he has just taken the only family Harry'd had left.
> 
> In Harry's attempt to avenge Sirius, he's captured instead. Being a prisoner on board the most infamous ship of all time is about as terrible as it sounds, but the appearance of a handsome stranger may just be the twist of fate that Harry needs.

“Lad!”

Harry clung to the side of the ship, staring wide-eyed at the distant shoreline that was getting farther and farther away. He wasn’t sure if the feeling bubbling in his stomach was excitement or illness.

“Hey, laddie!”

Harry startled at the broad palm that landed on his shoulder and whirled him around. A tall man with a bright red coat and long, matted brown hair glowered at him. “What’s yer name, boy?”

“Uh… er, I’m Harry, sir,” Harry stammered, gaze drawn unavoidably to the man’s bright eyes. His left in particular, which appeared to be stuck forever looking leftwards. His right, however, seemed to stare straight through Harry, a look clearly meant to unnerve. And unnerve Harry it did.

“Harry.” The man harrumphed. “What’re ya doin’ up here, _Harry_?”

Harry blinked. “I, uh—well, er…”

“I see,” the man drawled. He roughly let go of his grip on Harry’s shoulder and drew up to his full, impressive height. “Why don’t ya go feed the witch, boy, make yourself useful. I won’t be havin’ anyone laze about my deck, ya hear?”

The words took a moment to process in Harry’s mind, but when they did, his eyebrows shot up. “Right!” he exclaimed, a tad too loudly. “Of course. Sorry, sir.”

He scrambled away from the man as quickly as he could, his cheeks burning, and hadn’t taken more than a few steps when he realized he had no idea what the man had meant by ‘feed the witch.’

Before he could determine if it would be worth it to turn back around and ask, his foot caught on a pile of rope and he was pitching forward right into a sturdy chest.

“Woah, mate,” said a voice. Large hands grasped at Harry’s arms, steadying him. “You alright?”

Harry looked up to find a young man about his own age staring back at him. His long orange hair was pulled back with some twine, and his vibrantly blue eyes glittered with amusement.

“I… yes, I’m fine. Thank you.” He didn’t quite know how to put into words that he had never been more out of his depth in his life, and he didn’t particularly think it wise to share that information, either.

It had been a split-second decision to sign on to the _Imperius_ , which he’d heard whispers in the _Hog’s Head_ was a privateer ship whose main objective would be going after Voldemort _._

The life of a sailor was not one his godfather, Sirius, had wanted for him. He’d taken great pains to get him an apprenticeship with a blacksmith three years ago to avoid Harry ever getting caught up at sea, be it with merchants, privateers, or, God forbid, the navy.

But Sirius was gone now—he ignored the painful twinge in his chest as best he could at the reminder—and Harry didn’t want to stand around all day crafting swords when he could be using one to stop pirates like the ones who’d killed first his parents and then his godfather from pillaging, murdering, and destroying good, honest people in the Caribbean.

He had one pirate in particular in mind who he’d love to have a go at. There was a reason he’d chosen the _Imperius_ , after all.

“First time on a ship?” the man asked, his tone kind. It didn’t help Harry feel any less embarrassed, however.

“Is it really so obvious?”

“‘Fraid so.” The man chuckled. “No worries, though, we all have to start somewhere. I’m Ron, by the way.”

“Harry.”

“Well, Harry, let’s get you acquainted with the ship and her crew, shall we?” Ron offered, his arm wrapping companionably around Harry’s shoulders as if he were about to start leading him.

It sounded rather perfect to Harry. “Please.”

Ron began by pointing up at the helm, where the man with the unnerving eyes and bright red coat had taken over the wheel. “That there is Mad-Eye Moody. He’s the captain of this fine ship, and a right bastard when he’s in a mood. Best to stay out of his way if you can help it.”

And Harry had to agree.

Ron proceeded to point out the first mate, the quartermaster, and even introduced him to some of his mates. He led Harry round to the stern and then down into the belly of the ship where the galley was, as well as the crew’s sleeping quarters.

When they were back topside, Harry paused to say, “Captain Moody told me ‘feed the witch.’ You wouldn’t happen to know what that means, would you?”

Ron’s eyes widened for a moment before narrowing in something like amusement bordering on pity. “So he’s got you looking after the witch, then, has he? Lucky bloke, you are.” The way Ron said the words made it sound like Harry was anything _but_ lucky. And wasn’t that just par for the course. “Hopefully you’ve a bit more backbone than ol’ Creevey. Wouldn’t want you to be scared off so soon. C’mon, mate, with me.”

Nothing Ron had just said had inspired any sort of confidence in him, but Harry had little choice but to follow as Ron led him back down to the galley.

“Hey, Lee!” Ron called out, mildly startling Harry with how loud his shout was. “Loony needs her lunch!”

Grumbling came from the back. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it!” a voice shouted back.

Ron turned to him and grinned. Harry tried to smile back, but figured he hadn’t quite succeeded when Ron belted out a laugh.

A few minutes later saw Harry heading down a hatch into the brig with a tray of watery stew and a mug of not-entirely-clear water. He’d felt a sting of betrayal when he’d realized Ron hadn’t followed him down—he’d get back at him for that later—but couldn’t very well turn around now.

The brig was rather small, holding only two cells while the rest of the compartment was stuffed with wooden boxes and barrels all tied together.

What caught his attention, though, was the single occupant inside one of the cells. A woman with hair as yellow as the straw she laid upon and a simple, dirtied blue dress suddenly lifted her head.

“Oh, hello,” she said, her voice low and melodic. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you down here before. I’m Luna. Who are you?”

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on [tumblr](https://padraigendragon.tumblr.com/)!


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